


Proclivity for Proximity

by lawfulknightress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Johnlock, Graphic Rape, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Rape Aftermath, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 140,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawfulknightress/pseuds/lawfulknightress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had known it was a terrible idea since it had first popped into his cranium. John was going to be angry. No. Actually, John was probably going to be livid. He had promised John he’d stop going out to cases by himself, but how could he curb his curiosity when the answer jumped right out at him in the middle of John’s date?"</p><p>The Yard has been chasing this suspect for weeks and have found nothing, so as soon as Sherlock Holmes finds a clue, he takes off after the man without his trusty blogger by his side. </p><p>This turns out to be the worst mistake Sherlock can ever remember making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Across the Street and Down the Lane

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: It will never be said that I did not tag this as a Rape Trigger. Be warned, it has a rather graphic rape scene and this story is of the aftermath of the experience.
> 
> If you or someone you know has been a victim:
> 
> US:  
> National Domestic Violence Hotline Call 1-800-799-7233 (24/7)
> 
> RAINN: Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (National Sexual Assault Hotline) Call 1-800-656-4673 (24/7)
> 
> UK:  
> Rape Crisis helpline on 0808 802 9999. (12-2.30pm and from 7-9.30pm.)
> 
> Victim Support Scotland  
> Edinburgh 0131 668 4486 (p)  
> 0131 662 5400 (f)  
> http://www.victimsupportsco.demon.co.uk
> 
> Victim Support National Office  
> London  
> 0845 303 0900 (hotline)
> 
> Drug Rape Trust  
> +44 (0) 1702 317695 (p)
> 
> International and more:  
> https://rainn.org/get-help/sexual-assault-and-rape-international-resources
> 
> I am also open to speaking to you should you need a shoulder.

He had known it was a terrible idea since it had first popped into his cranium.

John was going to be angry. No. Actually, John was probably going to be _livid_. He had promised John he’d stop going out to cases by himself, but how could he curb his curiosity when the answer jumped right out at him in the middle of John’s date?

Not that he hadn’t texted him; no date was worth not crashing if Sherlock had his way, but John had _actually_ blown him off. Sherlock supposed that the relationship with Mary or Martha or _whoever_ was actually going well enough (and John must have been desperate enough) to merit it higher than Sherlock’s overwhelming need for John’s presence.

 _I don’t need John,_ he reminded himself sourly. _He’s merely a beneficial sounding board._

Either way, it seemed that beneficial or not, Sherlock had found himself without his blogger chasing down the criminal of the evening.

“Christ!” He murmured to himself in frustration, the sound of which was swallowed by the thrumming music in _Club 826_. Myriads of teens and young adults pulsed with the heartbeat of bass that he could feel altering his own in his chest. He bounced on the balls of his feet over the crowd and caught a glimpse of the middle-aged man in jeans and a leather jacket he was after and set off; leather soles pounding against the smooth concrete saturated in alcohol, sweat, and God knew what worse.

Lestrade had called him onto the case when they had (inevitably) found a wrench in the works that didn’t quite fit the day before. Three deaths, all apparent suicides, all had occurred three days from each other, all young men who had been raped just before their deaths. Sherlock shook his head in frustration once more as his soles pounded the floor and the wind brushed his fringe from his brow.

Anyone with half a sense would have realized these weren’t suicides. No, there weren’t any defense wounds, nor were there any drugs involved, but Sherlock _knew_ it was foul play. A single slice across the wrist and an accompanying one down the forearm? Even Anderson should have recognized the lack of scars and previous attempts on the bodies. Nobody pulls a single line across the skin with that much delicacy and accuracy- _especially_ not if they’re in emotional turmoil. Their arms should have been littered with wounds as the victims gained the gall to actually deepen the blade, but obviously they weren’t.

 _Despicable, really,_ he thought, _how the Yard keeps fools like him on their payroll._

As soon as he had been called in, Sherlock had spotted a bit of dust on the clothes of every victim and had tested the components whilst John had been at the surgery the following day. Turns out that sawdust saturated in blood and alcohol lead the detective to search out a nearby dance-studio-turned-club for suspects. He had just arrived and was inconspicuously scanning the crowd before his suspect took off down the halls as if the Devil were on his heels.

The detective’s coat billowed behind him as he dashed up a set of stairs and down another hallway finally chasing the suspect into what looked like an old ballet studio room. He held his breath as he listened for the man’s labored breathing, finding himself slightly miffed that he could only hear the incessant thrumming of his own elevated heartbeat.

He rolled his steps as he entered the room and slunk up against the wall, watching every mirror that surrounded him for signs of movement; only the slight whisper of his winter clothes betraying his position.

A sudden squeak of plastic soles against dusty wooden floors caught his attention and he swiveled around just as his suspect emerged from a hidden corner in the room and slung him to the ground with a resonating _thunk_.

He slid on the smooth surface, but quickly regained his footing and threw a solid fist at the man’s face that- to his surprise- the man caught with the slightest effort of his own hand. The world suddenly spun around him as his fist was wrapped around his back and the suspect practically lifted him from the floor, subsequently slamming him down on the bar attached to the mirror.

Stars filled his vision and his head throbbed as the side of his head made contact with the wood, and his weight pulled him down against the mirror, shattering the pane. He recoiled in on himself, covering his face with his arms, as the reflective surface exploded and bathed him in shimmering splinters before the man hauled him upright by his greatcoat collar and slung him across the room.

 _Where the hell is John when I need him_? His panicked mind questioned as he felt the suspect clamber on top of him and grip his curls, pulling his head up straight as he lay prone on the ground. Black and white spots flashed in his vision as his cheek collided with impressive force down against the wood, stunning him and sending his thoughts into oblivion as he tried to focus back on his attacker.

He struggled until he felt two knees pressing against the back of his own and an elbow pressing mercilessly between his shoulder blades. His palms pressed against the wood, but he found that he hadn’t the leverage, nor the strength that he would need in order to flip them over. He writhed under the weight of his oppressor, but the more he fought, the heavier the weight grew and he ground his teeth as he finally decided to try and conserve his energy; his nostrils flaring and fogging up the wood beneath his cheek in frustration.

The room fell into silence as he stopped struggling and his attacker purred against his ear, “I’m gonna like you. I can already tell.”

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a sweaty hand grip at his overcoat and he growled, gripping his hands underneath him in order to keep it on as he felt the pressure from his shoulders ease away.

“Unhand me, you Philistine!” He barked as he attempted to push himself up, only to have a flash of pain in his head as he was thrust back into the hard surface. He lifted his gaze to the unbroken mirror about a meter away and took in the man’s appearance. _(Approximately seventeen stone; dark, straight hair- military cropped; nearly black irises; leather aviation jacket; military training of sorts; wife and young daughter; clothes not taken care of.)_

“Your wife is sleeping with your brother. You’ve just been cut off from your family funds and your employer let you go because of your sudden decline in performance. Your daughter despises you and-” his voice caught on a strangled word as a hand gripped around his scarf and pressed against his carotid arteries on either side of his neck.

The pressure in his head increased tenfold and his vision spotted as the man behind him sniggered and grazed his right ear with his teeth, “You think you’re real clever, yeah? You know, I always like it when they fight; makes it more fun for me.”

Fingers mercifully released on his neck and Sherlock swallowed air gawkily, not noticing the man finally slipping off the thick cotton coat and sliding it across the floor. The detective’s vision finally stabilized and he met his captor’s eyes in the mirror. He snarled, “I will kill you.”

The dark-haired man smiled, crooked teeth gleaming in the meager light of the abandoned studio, “I highly doubt that, mate.” He winked wryly, “And definitely not before I have a little… _fun_ with you.”

The detective stilled as a hand cupped his buttocks through his trousers and his heart fluttered in panic.

_No. No. No. How did you not anticipate this? John will have no idea where you are and Lestrade won’t know until it’s too late. Dammit!  This is NOT happening._

He began to thrash violently underneath the heavy man, kicking back with his feet and clawing backwards with his hands, to no avail. His bruised knees ached as the man shifted on the back of them, lowering one hand to press Sherlock’s skull down to ground and the other lifting towards his belt.

“Let. Me. _Go_!” Sherlock bit out as he mustered what energy he could against the oppressive mass on his body. The man just seemed to enliven further as the detective panicked and it sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He heard a zip loosen and the whisper of clothes shifted and he pinched his eyes tight, tightening every muscle in his body with the intention of keeping his clothes very much _on_.

A heavy hand reached around his waist and the detective writhed about the wood floors until he felt cool air on his bare skin and a strangled cry caught in his throat.

_No! Leave me alone!_

It wasn’t necessarily his chastity that frightened him, nor the inevitable pain, but it was the apprehension of the face that John would wear if he ever found out. Sherlock had left his wishes blatantly unheeded and although he couldn’t claim John to be a cruel man, he knew the expression of shame and pity the doctor would don would break the heart he had just discovered.

Sweaty hands cupped his supple flesh and Sherlock swallowed hard as he felt a slick finger invade his space. His breath hissed as he was violated and the man laughed behind him with a malicious tone, “You should just relax and enjoy the ride, mate!”

Sherlock pinched his eyes tight as he felt the fingers multiply and the prickle of tears burned in his eyes so he bit down hard on his lip. He would _not_ give the man the satisfaction of tears. He would not express any sentiment but _hatred_ and _contempt_ as the man violated his person.

His eyes jerked open and a sharp cry escaped his throat as the initial discomfort morphed into agony as the man behind him gripped his bony hips with enough pressure to leave purple welts and thrust his condom-sheathed-self inside the detective.

_Pretend it’s John. Pretend it’s John. You’ve wanted that for how long? Just pretend it’s John._

A gruff scoff echoed from behind him as the man buried himself up to the hilt, “John? Who’s John? Your faggot boyfriend?”

 _Shit_. He hadn’t meant to say anything out loud. Although the irony of a man calling anyone such a derogatory term as he was in the process of committing sodomy wasn’t lost on the detective, he tensed his body in revulsion and shame as the man behind him cajoled him.

“You’re so damn tight! I can imagine what a good fuck your Johnny gets out of you!”

Sherlock tried to swallow the whimpers that escaped his throat as the man tore into his body, but he found himself unable to keep all of it down. The room echoed with pitiful whines and gruff moans of pleasure and Sherlock cringed from the sounds.

“No clever words now, huh?” He prodded, pressing a rather violent thrust into the detective causing him to moan in discomfort. Unfortunately, this only pleased the man, “Oh, you want it! You pretty little whore!”

Without warning the man gripped Sherlock’s curls again and jerked his head up, causing a sharp yelp to rip out of his throat.

“Look at the mirror!” The man commanded. “I said look!” He jerked Sherlock’s head again when the detective disobeyed him until his watery eyes finally opened and landed on his own face in the dirty mirror. His already pale face had a sickly sallowness, colored only by blossoming bruises, and was contorted with pain that he couldn’t remember having ever seen on his own face before. His normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot with frustration and wet from the tears that threatened to spill over his lashes if he didn’t focus on reining them in.

He met the man’s gaze as he continued to thrust into his body and the grip on his curls grew tighter, “You’ve got a good memory, yeah? Seems like a posh little prat like you would. Remember this every time your little Johnny fucks you, yeah? Every time he thrusts his cock in your pretty little arse,” he punctuated his words with another animalistic thrust causing Sherlock to cry out, “remember me! Remember how _good_ I was!”

Sherlock’s stomach churned and he felt bile rise in his throat as the man held his head tight in the air and forced him to gaze upon his own violation. His heart burned as he heard the slap of skin against skin and the ungainly ripple of the force in the man’s thighs and stomach.

“You like it, don’t you? You little fuckslut!”

_You can just delete it. It’s almost over, you can just delete it._

He felt his breath hitch in panic and he forced his brain to quiet until the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat slamming in his ears. Suddenly the man behind him began to tremble and cry out as he forced several long and particularly painful plunges into Sherlock, pulling his ebony curls from their roots, before laying all of his weight on top of the thin detective and nearly smothering him into the wood.

Sherlock finally took notice of how his body heaved and trembled and he struggled beneath the man above him before he unsheathed himself from Sherlock and the detective’s breath caught as he winced from the discomfort. The grip on his hair finally loosened and he felt his face fall flat on the cool wooden floor.

The man panted heavily as he pulled himself up straight and slid off the prophylactic, tying it before he shoved it in his jacket pocket. ( _Disgusting, but effective_.) “Now comes the _real_ fun part.”

Sherlock’s eyes watched warily as the man reached back in his other pocket and produced a small penknife. _Exactly the same as the other murders_ , Sherlock surmised as he watched the metal gleam in the darkness through the mirror. His stomach dropped again, _God. I’m a VICTIM now. He’s going to murder me and John’s going to know exactly what happened. He’ll know I was a VICTIM._ Knowing that there was no way to fight back without causing more irreparable damage, the detective didn’t struggle as the man pulled his jacket sleeve up his left arm and sliced the buttons from his silk shirt cuff. With all of his fight sapped from his system, Sherlock painstakingly turned his head and watched the blade slip across his wrist; a bite of pain and crimson beading before pulsing out in sickly hot rivulets down his pale skin.

_Just make it stop._

Curiosity finally made its debut in the whole ordeal as he felt the blade cut the skin deep enough to produce blood and a permanent scar, but not deep enough to cause imminent death as long as he could get a tourniquet on it soon. His belt would suffice as long as his attacker didn’t want to stay and watch him bleed out for the hell of it.

 He forced his mind to focus on slowing his thrumming heartbeat as he heard the man bend down behind him, humiliation and sadistic pleasure radiating from his very skin. The detective lay perfectly still and docile as the man gripped his throat again and growled into his ear, “See you around, mate. It’s been fun.”

A sudden kick to the gut had Sherlock gasping for air as he watched the man saunter into the shadows and back into the hallway leading to the club.

Time seemed to stop for a brief moment and Sherlock felt something in his chest… break?

_Hearts don’t break, you know that. Don’t panic. Don’t panic…_

He unexpectedly felt his chest heave with emotion and he curled in on his side, his wounded arms wrapping around his knees as he unwittingly faced the mirror again. The pain of his trousers pulling across his damaged skin reminded him of his need for a tourniquet, so he forced himself up; sliding his belt from its loops with his severely trembling right hand.

“C-Christ,” he stammered as he wrapped his belt around his upper arm, pinching the skin as he tightened the leather.

 _Isn’t it obvious?_ His mind supplied as he began to roll the bloodied sleeve back down. _John can most certainly put two and two together._

Blurred eyes searched around before settling on a rather larger shard of mirror to his side. His right hand trembled terribly as he tried to pluck the shard from the ground; his calloused fingertips catching on the edge and producing their own sheen of crimson on the reflective glass. He swallowed a sob as he pressed the sharpest edge against the outer skin of his forearm; dragging it haphazardly across the pale skin with a hiss.

_An accident. Make it look like an accident. John won’t believe you, but he won’t have proof for anything else._

He swallowed a sob and jagged lines of ruby liquid streamed down to his lax fingertips as he permanently scarred his own skin with crude streaks. As he finished his ministrations, he pulled the cloth back down over the wounds and pressed his arm close to his chest and his mind began to short circuit.

“I’m s-sorry,” he mumbled to no one in particular as he folded in on himself and buried his face in his arms. He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for, but his subconscious evidently believed that tears were necessary and warm saline began to slide down his bruised cheeks. Suddenly his gut revolted against him and he curled forward just in time to release a Technicolor yawn in front of the mirror.

He coughed and spat into the floor on all fours before daring to raise his eyes to meet his own reflection. As he did so, his mind automatically flashed pictures of the man on top of him and he yelped as he recoiled back from the memories.

_You need to get home. Just go home. Mycroft will find you. John will help you. They’ll be revolted, but they’ll take care of you. It’s all over._

He rubbed a shivering hand on his temple and begged his mind to obey his pleas, “D-delete! Delete! For G-god’s sakes!”

The baritone voice hitched as he wept heavy tears of shame and frustration, and the despondent sounds echoed in the empty studio. He leaned forward and scrubbed his face with his right sleeve, sucking air through his teeth as he steeled himself to stand.

Sherlock’s legs wobbled precariously as he pulled himself up with the ballet bar, and they trembled terribly as he stepped forward, bending only to retrieve his jacket from the floor. He slid the comforting material around his body and pressed his arm back tightly against his chest as he unwillingly examined the crime scene.

_Blood._

_His_ blood smeared the floor. Not much, but enough to make his knees buckle and his stomach retch again, this time producing nothing but ill feelings. He fixed his pants and trousers and wrapped his greatcoat tightly around his frame as he slowly retreated from the club and back to Baker Street with a slight limp he didn’t want to acknowledge.

 

***

 

John pulled himself up from his seat and paced the distance between the couch and his chair for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. He had known that blowing Sherlock off was probably not the best idea in the middle of a case, but _dammit_ , he was allowed _one_ night to himself.

He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and slid the screen open again.

_Messages (0)_

The doctor growled as he thrust the phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Dammit Sherlock, could you not keep yourself entertained for _one_ bloody night?”

He startled as a key slid into the door and the hinges creaked open.

His initial delight at seeing Sherlock’s familiar face suddenly dropped into ice in the pit of his stomach as he rushed to the door. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock! What did you get yourself into?”

He raised a hand to cup the detective’s cheek but he uncharacteristically flinched away, seeming to make a point to not meet John’s eye.

The doctor’s soft face cringed in sympathy and his caring eyes searched the detective’s face for all of his ailments, “Sherlock, what’s wrong? What’s happened to you?”

Silence greeted his question as the detective shrugged out of his greatcoat and slung it (also abnormal) on the floor under the hooks. He pulled his sleeve up and the doctor gasped, gripping the detective’s wrist, irritated to find that the appendage also recoiled from his touch.

“Sherlock, tell me what is going on!” he demanded as he raced into the bathroom, pulling out his kit and returning back into the sitting area where Sherlock continued to stand still as a statue. “Is this related to the case?”

“John, are you going to continue interrogating me until I bleed out on our carpet?” The detective’s chilled voice caught him off-guard and he shivered.

“Erm, right. Sorry,” he mumbled as he began to clean the wound where the detective continued to stand; relieving Sherlock’s broken skin of its make-shift tourniquet and allowing blood to flow back into his arm. “It seems pretty superficial, you’re not gonna need stitches, but I’m afraid it’s going to scar. Sherlock, _please_ tell me what happened. This could have _killed_ you if it was any deeper.”

Sherlock’s mandible clenched and unclenched at John’s ministrations and the uneasiness in John’s stomach grew at his friend’s silence.

“I fell through a window,” he said nonchalantly, earning him an uneasy glare from the doctor.

“A window?” John questioned as he continued to clean the crimson from the pale skin, “You’re telling me a _window_ did this to you and you don’t have _any_ cuts whatsoever on your hands? Your shirt’s not even cut up!”

“Deduction is not your strong suit, John.” Sherlock bit, his eyes not meeting John’s. “I suggest you remain a doctor; and a silent one at that.”

John’s cheeks flushed bright red and he half debated letting the arrogant detective bleed out on the floor, but only bit on his lip and let his hands resume their care.

At last, after finishing the gauze and wrapping, he gripped Sherlock’s hand in his own, concern painted on his face. “Sherlock, _please_. What’s going on? Why won’t you talk to me?”

The detective jerkily retracted his hand and paced into his room without another word; the door slamming behind him and setting John’s teeth on edge as he heard the shower turn on.

He slinked back into his chair and slipped his phone from his pocket.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_Did something happen on the case today? Sherlock’s acting really strange. –JW_

_00:30_

John’s knee jiggled up and down until his phone pinged with a response that didn’t help his restlessness.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Not that I know of. He said he had a hunch, but never told me what it was. He always acts weird, what’s going on? –GL_

_00:35_

John’s eye attempted to pierce Sherlock’s bedroom door, but he was unable to see anything past the wooden frame.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_He won’t speak to me or look at me. He came back and his arm was all bloodied up, but he won’t tell me what happened. Do you think he got caught up with the murderer? –JW_

_00:37_

From: Greg Lestrade

_I don’t know. Let me know if he tells you. Is he ok? If he’s ignoring you, I’m assuming he didn’t bleed out? –GL_

_00:39_

John smirked as he typed back.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_He made a tourniquet from his belt so he’s all right. I’m just concerned. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Let me know if anything turns up. –JW_

_00:40_

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Will do. Try to keep him from dying. –GL_

_00:43_

John smiled back at his phone before sliding it into his pocket again and glancing back at Sherlock’s door as he heard an unpleasant noise; narrowing his eyes in concentration.

_Is he… vomiting? Jesus, what happened?_

He chewed on his cheek as he listened to the shower click off and a shift of cloth in his flatmate’s room, but said flatmate never emerged from the closed doorway.

After another thirty minutes of expending nervous energy by pacing around the flat, John carefully knocked on Sherlock’s door and slid it open.

Strangely enough, the entire room was bathed in light, and John pursed his lips as he tried to search for the detective.

“Sherlock?”

The mass on the bed seemed to be the correct size of his flatmate, but it was curled up in a fetal position on the mattress facing away from the door _(was that a hood over his head? Since when does Sherlock wear hoods?)_ ; the room was silent as a tomb. John leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms nervously, “Sherlock, I know you’re awake.”

A grumble greeted his concern, but its unintelligible content left him confused.

“What?”

His flatmate’s baritone, abnormally cracked, barked back at him drenched with annoyance, “John, go away. Your insufferable concern is unnecessary and your post-coital stench is making me ill.”

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his face heated with ire, “Yeah. Alright.”

He spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him, grumbling all the way up to his room before flopping down on his bed like a petulant child.

 _Serves me right for worrying about that stupid man,_ he chided himself as he growled into his pillow.

He sighed and sat back up, removing his clothing and sliding back into bed before checking his phone again.

 

_01:20_

 

He griped inarticulately as he wrapped himself in his sheets and pinched his eyes tight. Something unnerving still bit at his consciousness and he swore he’d pry the night’s events from the detective soon enough, but he was to be in the surgery at 08:00 and couldn’t afford to waste another moment of sleep.

He huffed frustrated air as he let his mind wander and the room eventually began to darken and quiet enough for sleep to stake its claim on him.

 

***

 

Sherlock had never felt more vile than he did lying in his bed. He had been anxious to get home and see John’s familiar face, but the second the good doctor tried to reach for him, his skin began to crawl with the concept of contact.

John’s expression of resignation and concern was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping to avoid and every second it lingered on him, he felt sick to his stomach and he couldn’t even raise his eyes to John’s out of shame.

The second he could take a shower without bleeding out into the drain, he scrubbed every inch of him pink and raw, still feeling the grime of his attacker on every surface.

_Dirty. Filthy. Tarnished. Contaminated. Spoiled. Stained. Defiled. Desecrated._

His mind raced through synonyms for his disgusting body as the hot water poured over him.

If he had had any hope of ever enticing John before today, it had been completely eradicated. The hot water dripped over him and he scrubbed with enough force to shred off an entire layer of his epidermis, yet he still felt the tinge of shame and filth on his body like he had been doused with pitch.

Suddenly his stomach turned over and he leaned hard against the cool tile wall as he gripped his sides and retched fruitlessly in the tub; his abdominal muscles aching with the effort.

“It’s over,” he quietly promised himself between coughs in the steam of the shower; his skin raw as he reapplied soap to his luffa. “You can just delete it. John’s here. Delete it.”

 _John_.

The detective’s broken heart swelled for a moment as he tried to imagine the doctor’s post-case smile and his hands unconsciously began to lather himself in John’s soap. The scent of his best- only- friend soothed his racing heart but his stomach dropped and he carefully laid the soap back down on its nook in the wall.

Whether or not it helped, he didn’t _deserve_ to smell like someone as pure and _right_ as John. As much as he wanted to absorb the comforting scent into his very pores, his trembling hand scrubbed himself with his own soap again until the water began to take a turn for the Arctic. If he noticed the crimson trickling down his thighs and swirling around the drain, he didn’t make mention of it and he certainly didn’t allow tears to mingle with the hot rain on his face. If anyone were to suggest anything to the contrary, they’d be undeniably mistaken.

He slowly shut off the taps and slinked out of the shower, thanking whatever deity might exist for the fog concealing the mirror as he passed it, and padded quietly into his room. Every moment he existed with only the towel around his hips, he felt incongruously exposed and it seemed that no matter the articles of clothing he slid into, he felt naked and vulnerable.

 _When was the last time you ever wore a hoodie?_ He questioned himself as he pulled the cotton fabric over his aching chest and fixed the hood over his damp curls. _No matter. It’s something. God, I feel awful._

With his body completely covered from head to toe, he slipped under the duvet and wrapped himself as tightly around himself as he could, wishing for all the world that the floor would just open up and swallow his wretched body. He could feel his body still trembling against his will so he tensed up his entire muscle structure in the hopes of warding off the shaking.

Turns out, that was just as John knocked on the door.

“Sherlock?”

_God, John, your voice. Just keep talking. Make me forget. For God’s sakes, John, make me forget._

“Sherlock, I know you’re awake.”

_Of course I’m awake. Do you actually think I’m going to be able to sleep? What if he finds me? He must know who I am. He could have followed me. God knows I wasn’t paying attention. If I’m asleep I’ll never hear the door unlock. He could come through the window- how would I ever know until it was too late? Do you honestly believe I’ll be sleeping any time soon? Don’t be daft!_

John’s clothes seemed to shift uncomfortably, “What?”

Had he actually said something? He really needed to get control over his mouth. Stress seemed to unlatch his self-control and it unnerved him. He opened his mouth and even he was surprised by what came out.

“John, go away. Your insufferable concern is unnecessary and your post-coital stench is making me ill.”

His heart stopped. _Did I just say that? I didn’t mean it. Please don’t go, John. Please don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone. Not if he can find me here._

Sherlock could practically hear John’s defenses mortar around him as the doctor’s body stiffened against the wooden door frame, “Yeah. Alright.”

 _No. Please, John. That’s not what I wanted to say,_ he thought as his eyes focused on a slight tear in the wallpaper on the other side of the room. He would be damned if he was going to allow John to see his face in whatever shape it was right then.

He jumped as his own door slammed behind him and he coiled in tighter around himself as his chest began to constrict around his lungs and his breath hitched. He rolled over on his other side and stared at the door. How would he know if someone unlocked the street door? He’d never hear it click from his room.

He slowly stood up and wrapped himself in the duvet, the bottom of it whispering against the floor as he pried his bedroom door open and crept into the sitting room. Trembling hands flicked the lock on the door and he spun around to latch the windows closed, willing them to never open again. His mind raced with unnerving possibilities and he settled on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, wincing at the despicable discomfort inside him, and he waited.

Waited for John to wake up again and keep him safe with his presence.

Waited for the man to break in and claim him again.

Waited for the ground to swallow him up and extinguish the gnawing pain in his chest.

Any one of the scenarios was possible and any one of them would have been preferable to the void of waiting.

 


	2. Lucky Number Three

“Eat something.”

Sherlock jumped at John’s soft, yet commanding voice as a ceramic plate chinked against the wooden table beside him. How long had he been staring at the door? He hadn’t even seen John come in. Someone could have attacked him from behind and he would never have known. He had to focus harder. He couldn’t lose himself in his reveries again.

“Sherlock?”

The detective shifted his eyes upwards and caught the deep navy pools of concern in John’s eyes stare back at him as the worry lines on his face deepened.

“Sherlock, I’ve said your name nearly ten times. Did you hear me?”

_Ten times? No it couldn’t possibly have been more than three._

His pale silver eyes searched John up and down before he nodded numbly and lowered his eyes back to the front door. Suddenly, the cushions near his feet dipped and John placed himself between the detective and the door, forcing him to meet his gaze.

John’s lips pursed as he held out his hand towards the detective, “Can I see your arm?” He tilted his head and gave a weary half-smile, “Please?”

The detective seemed to turn over the idea in his mind until he reluctantly retracted his arm from his blanket and lifted it for John’s inspection.

The doctor smiled earnestly and went to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s wrist before he thought better of it, “Could you pull back your sleeve? You seem really touchy lately.”

_God, John is a saint. I’ll write a resolution to send to the Vatican to convince them to canonize his sainthood. Mycroft should be good for some persuasion._

He retracted his right hand from beneath the duvet and slipped the cotton cuff down from his wrist to the crook of his elbow and the doctor carefully plucked the gauze from his forearm before smiling and taping it back down.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any infection, but you will have a rather nasty scar.” He shifted uncomfortably on the cushion so that his entire body faced Sherlock’s folded up one and he held out his hand as an offering of comfort, his eyes pointing at the gauze-covered skin, “Care to tell me how you got that? I don’t believe a window up and attacked you for a second.”

The detective stiffened in his position and he jerked the cotton cuff back up to his palm so that only his fingers were exposed by either sleeve. _Why shouldn’t you tell him? He’ll help you forget. He’s John- he fixes things. That’s what he does._

“I’m fine,” he mumbled instead, his eyes focusing on the doctor’s steadily thrumming carotid artery, ensuring he never met John’s. 

The doctor frowned at Sherlock’s denial and puffed out his cheeks, “Sherlock, you’re not ‘fine’. You’ve spoken no more than five words at a time since you’ve been home. And even fewer since I got back from work today.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled. _Back from work? What time is it?_ How long had he been lost in his own thoughts?

John shook his head, apparently reading Sherlock’s train of thought, “It’s ten ’o’clock at night and you haven’t moved since before I left my room this morning. That being said, you need to _eat_ before you keel over, although I can’t imagine sleep being bad for you either.”

He picked up the plate of toast and held it out for Sherlock’s scrutinization.

_Make John happy. He just wants to help._

Long fingers plucked up a slice of bread and although his stomach roiled at the thought of food, he methodically crunched on it, knowing John was evaluating every movement he made.

“That’s a good man,” he commented softly, placing the plate back on the table within Sherlock’s reach. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine I guess. But as your friend _and_ your doctor, I need to know what’s wrong with you.”

“There is nothing _wrong_ with me!” Sherlock hissed before he could stop the words from flowing out of his mouth.  And it was a lie; there was quite a bit wrong with him at the moment.

John visibly backpedaled and raised his hands defensively, “You’re right. That’s not what I meant. I just need to know what’s wrong with your body. You’re all bundled up, are you cold? Do you have a fever?”

He raised an exposed wrist to Sherlock’s hooded face but the detective flinched away, his eyes shifted from the doctor to the couch and not lifting again. John worried his lips between his teeth as he lowered his hand, “Okay then. I’ll just…” He pushed himself from the couch and gestured to the fireplace, frowning as Sherlock leveled his stare back towards the front door.

Uneasiness gripped John’s heart as he began to stoke a fire to take the winter chill from the room, and his gaze kept flicking back to the detective curled up on the couch. For such a tall man, he surprisingly took up very little space and barely covered an entire cushion with his body scrunched up like that. He sighed and poked the meager fire until it consumed the wood and warmth poured into the sitting area.

“You know,” he said cordially, attempting to catch Sherlock’s attention, “I know you told me you’d go silent for days on end, but I think I actually prefer you chattering on about nonsense experiments.”

His desired reaction never took place as the detective continued to bore a hole in the door. He decided to change tactics and turned on his knees, “Sherlock, did you and the door have a row? It was locked this morning when I came down.” Noticing the sudden tightening in his friend’s muscles, John chewed his cheek, “Do you think someone is trying to get into our flat?”

Suddenly sharp silver eyes darted towards him and he noticed how the other man’s breath began to accelerate as a shockingly small voice responded back accusatorily, “Why? Have you seen something?”

John shook his head to lay the other man’s concerns to rest, “No, no, I was just curious. You don’t normally care about the doors being locked, that’s all.”

The hooded head slowly turned forward again and rested on the bony knees, “Precautions.”

“Precautions for what?” John pressed.

The silence dragged out for a bit before a small whisper broke it, “Nothing.”

John’s shoulders dropped and he chewed his cheek, “Okay, Sherlock. Are we in danger? I need to know if I want to protect you.”

He seemed just as shocked as the detective at the words that fell out of his mouth and his cheeks flushed. The detective’s shoulders seemed to lose some tension and he shook his head, “You’re not in any danger, John. Just… keep the doors locked… Please.”

John figured that was as far as he was going to get and he nodded, “Okay. I can do that.” His phone chimed in his pocket so he slid it out and opened the message.

“Greg wants to know if you’ve come up with anything for the case,” he stated enthusiastically, desperate for Sherlock to show something besides resignation. Much to his chagrin the swaddled man only cringed and wrapped himself tighter in a ball.

“Six foot- two inches, seventeen stone, dark brown hair- military crop, dark brown eyes- almond shaped, round face. Has a wife about to leave him and a daughter who despises him, and was just let go from his job and now lurks around Club Eight-Two-Six as exhibited by the sawdust on the victim’s clothes.”

John’s jaw clenched as he listened to the description and typed it into his phone, “Sherlock that sounds like a deduction from personal experience. Is that where you were last night?”

The detective went silent again and John prickled with irritation, “Sherlock, we _talked about this!_ You can’t just go out by yourself if you’re looking for criminals! Look at your arm! You can’t tell me you just happened to fall on a shattered beer bottle or through a bloody window. One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”

John groaned and ran a hand through his hair as a meek voice escaped the confines of jacket and duvet.

“I know… I’m… sorry.”

The words were obviously spoken by a man whose mouth didn’t form them very often and they sent ice into John’s stomach. He raised his eyes and narrowed them at the detective, “It’s… It’s all right, Sherlock. Just don’t do it again. I can’t keep you safe if I’m not there.”

“Okay,” the detective whispered.

John shifted nervously on his knees next to the healthy fire, “Okay.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and finished the text to Lestrade, his eyes bouncing between the man in the blanket and the phone before he stood and paced over to the kitchen, “Tea?”

He turned his head and actually caught the detective shaking his head as an answer which troubled him even more, “Suit yourself then.”

He flicked on the kettle and wandered about in the kitchen until it began to whistle and he accidentally prepared two cups anyways out of habit. He chuckled to himself and poured the second cup out before retreating back to his chair and popping open his latest novel.

A long while later, John’s attention was piqued by Sherlock’s soft baritone.

“John?”

“Hmm?” He hummed as he turned his page.

Silence filled the air once more before the detective spoke, “Never mind.”

John lifted his gaze and found the detective curled in tighter around himself and trembling.

_What the hell happened?_

Concerned, he shut his book and paced over to the couch where he sat down within arm’s reach, but not encroaching on Sherlock’s personal space. He hummed contentedly as he pried his book back open and the detective mumbled something scarcely more than a breath of air.

“Thank you.”

He replied with a smile and continued to read down the page, stretching a palm out and patting Sherlock’s knee. Thankfully, the detective didn’t flinch away from the contact so John’s thumb rubbed carefully on his friend’s stretched tendon.

“You’re all right, Sherlock,” John hummed into the air between them, not raising his eyes from the page. “You don’t have to tell me; I’ll still be here.”

Sherlock nodded numbly and allowed John to keep his hand on his skin until his trembling subsided and John’s words echoed in his mind.

_I want to protect you._

_I can’t keep you safe if I’m not there._

_I’ll still be here._

Words of assurance and protection should have comforted him, but the only thing that Sherlock could see in his mind was John’s expression of resignation if he found out. He decided at that moment that John couldn’t ever know what happened. He needed John and John would go away if he discovered the truth. There was no doubt in his mind and he most assuredly couldn’t lose John; not now. He’d just have to get over it.

Delete it.

He could do that.

 

Right?

 

***

 

“As much of a proponent as I am for personal hygiene, I think you’re going a little overboard.”

John smirked as Sherlock emerged from his room, toweling off his hair and wrapping his housecoat tightly around his form, before dropping the damp cloth on the ground.

“Pardon?”

John set a tea cup down on the table in front of Sherlock and smiled, “That’s the third shower you’ve taken today. Our water bill is gonna be through the roof!”

Sherlock pursed his lips and slouched on the couch, sipping warily from his tea. Three days. It had been three days and he still felt that man’s fingers biting into his skin. Still felt the sting of foreign flesh in his gut. No matter how hard and long he stole himself away in the shower, the filth never seemed to dissipate and his skin formicated with the memories. Speaking of memories, he hadn’t been able to close his eyes for more than a minute before that face in the mirror flashed in his mind’s eye, sending him into a trembling state of panic as his heart tried to beat out of his chest.

 _Three days._ How long was this going to last?

“Snap out of it!”

The detective’s blue eyes snapped to John’s face merely a few feet from his own. The doctor frowned and waved a hand in front of Sherlock’s nose. “You checked out for a little bit. You all right?”

Sherlock’s lashes blinked furiously as he shook the disturbing images from his head and replied with a weak, “I’m fine.”

John straightened up and shifted on his hip, “Yeah, okay. Are you going to answer your mobile? It’s been ringing for the last five minutes.”

Sherlock’s heart jumped as his mind made the connections.

_Three days._

Lestrade had thought that the man had been captured for some other offense or had been killed because of the break in his pattern, but he hadn’t even considered himself the missing victim.

Three days and he hadn’t done a thing to help find the culprit.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!_

“Who’s stupid?”

Sherlock jerked his head to the man standing before him with a cocked eyebrow. He really needed to work on his biting his tongue when his thoughts ran away from him.

“The entire Yard,” he mumbled nonchalantly as he reached for his phone on the table and slid it open.

 

From: D.I. Lestrade

_Found another one. Wrist slit open and raped. Same as the others. Are you coming? –GL_

_12:39_

His mind raced and although his chest seized with anxiety, he typed back a confident response.

 

To: D.I. Lestrade

_Send me the address. –SH_

_12:46_

 

“Are we headed out?” John queried as Sherlock locked the phone and placed it down on the table. The detective lifted his head and nodded as he stood and headed for his room.

Three days. It had been even longer since he last slept and he’d eaten about as frequently. It was a formula for disaster and he knew it, but if he could find another single clue from this victim’s body, he’d do it if only for the sake of revenge.

He shut the door to his room quietly and slid out of his housecoat, letting it slip into a pool of silk on the floor next to his bed as he sat down on it and ran his fingers through his curls.

Three days since it had happened. Three days since he had left the flat. Exhaustion burned in his chest and head, but he’d be damned if he sentenced himself to an entire night of watching his attack over and over until he woke up screaming. Then he would have no choice but to explain the source of the nightmares to John and he couldn’t face that. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. Maybe he’d start taking sleeping pills that would send him into a thick, dreamless slumber. He could live with that.

He dragged his fingers down his face and stood back up, steeling himself to dress and emerge from the flat as a damaged man. He slipped his T-shirt off of his back and looked down, immediately regretting doing so. Purple fingerprints bit into the pale flesh around his hips and he felt his stomach churn at the sight of them. He instantly plucked a deep mauve shirt from his closet and buttoned it hastily to cover up the proof of his nightmare.

He sighed as he shimmied into his black suit trousers and wrapped the matching jacket around his arms, finally feeling a little less than naked and decided to wash his face for the up-hundredth time that week. Something in the back of his skull nagged of eerie premonition, but he ignored it and stepped into the loo, quietly slicking the door shut behind him and locking it out of his newly-developed habit.

He relieved himself and set about washing his hands when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

_“Look at the mirror!”_

He raised his eyes and to his horror, a pair of dark brown irises greeted him as a sickly hot breath of contempt exhaled over his neck.

_“Every time he thrusts his cock in your pretty little arse, remember me!”_

Bile crept up his throat and he cried out, swinging backwards and finding himself crouching beside the toilet gripping his hair and heaving shallow, panicked breaths.

“No!” He hollered to the non-existent entity as he heard the handle on the door jiggle furiously before a pounding filled his ears.

“Sherlock, open this door! I swear to God, I’ll break it down! _Sherlock_!”

He tried to catch his heaving breath before he lifted his head and whined like an adolescent, “G-go away!”

The hammering seemed to cease and Sherlock could practically hear John cross his arms and shift on his hips, “Are you- are you fucking _serious_? Open this damn door, Sherlock, before I open it _for_ you!”

Sherlock hummed a dull tone and focused on it as he pressed his hands to his ears and pinched his eyes tight.

_It’s over. You’re just seeing things. Open up the door._

He seethed hot air through his teeth and John’s frustration only grew and his Captain Watson voice commanded to be let into his subconscious.

“Sherlock Holmes, open this door or _so help me_!”

The detective braced himself to move forward but only crumpled to his knees and his voice caught in his throat, “I c-can’t.”

Suddenly John’s demeanor did a one-eighty and he heard the doctor slip onto his knees and then place his cheek on the floor as if to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the two inches between the door and the ground, “Sherlock, are you all right? Please let me in. I’d really rather not have to pay for another door.”

The detective could only muster the strength to sit himself straight up again before his breath became hard to grasp and his panicked mind gasped for oxygen.

“Sherlock, you’re okay. Don’t panic, just give me- oh!”

There was the rustle of clothes and the whisper of fingers tracing the wooden frame before an excited “Ah-ha!” echoed through the door. A thin piece of metal clinked through the door handle (Sherlock supposed John had finally remembered the spare key) before John pushed his way in and sank to his knees in front of the detective.

“Christ, Sherlock! Your hand!”

The detective furrowed his brow before he raised his trembling right hand and turned it over in front of him. His eyes blew wide as the reflective shards shined back at him and the crimson of his blood intermingled with the sharp glass. John gripped his hand gently, but still caused Sherlock to cry out in panic and pain and he dropped the damaged hand immediately. He raised his own bloody hand and gripped Sherlock’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Sherlock, look at me. Come on, look at me. Did you take something?”

Sherlock audibly choked on his words, but he managed to shake his head fervently in John’s hands.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed as he disappeared behind the detective’s back and gripped him around his chest in order to steady the man’s heaving torso.

_“You should just relax and enjoy the ride, mate!”_

As if burned, Sherlock peeled himself away from John’s arms and curled in on himself away from the doctor, raising his bloody hand in warning, “St-stay back!”

John raised his hands palms-out in acquiescence and his voice went soft and concerned, “Alright, Sherlock. I’m not touching you. You’re all right. Just breathe, okay? I don’t want you passing out with glass everywhere, okay?”

Much to his astonishment, Sherlock eyed the bathroom down and found that John had been right: shards of mirror sprinkled the tile floor. He pinched his eyes tight and ground his teeth as he focused his thoughts on silence.

John slowly crept closer to Sherlock’s crumpled form and cupped a hand gently around Sherlock’s cheek, giving him ample time and space to pull away, “Sherlock, pay attention. I want you to focus on me, okay? Repeat what I’m saying. Can you do that for me? One, Hydrogen. Two, Helium. Three, Lithium. Come on, Sherlock, focus.”

Sherlock nodded as pale silver eyes locked with deep navy and his voice quivered along with his chattering jaw, “F-four, B-beryllium. Five, B-boron.”

John smiled and rubbed a sticky thumb on Sherlock’s cheekbone, “You’re doing brilliantly, keep it up. Six, Carbon. Seven, Nitrogen. Eight, Oxygen.”

Neither party so much as blinked as they recited through the Periodic Table and Sherlock’s heaving began to settle until his voice regained its confidence at “Fifty-four, Xenon.” John took a slow, deep breath and urged his friend to do the same before the detective leaned his cheek into John’s palm and the doctor smiled warily.

“You’re all right, Sherlock,” he soothed as his thumb traced the prominent bone under Sherlock’s bloodshot eye, “I’m right here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he listened to John’s mollifying chuckle, “You know, I haven’t had to use that little tidbit since Uni!”

The detective lifted a side of his lips in an attempt at a smile and focused on John’s calloused thumb skimming his cheek. The scent of John’s wrist was intoxicating and Sherlock had to force his eyes open in order to not nod off with the comfort it brought.

John shifted from kneeling on one knee to sliding both down and resting on his ankles as he held out his other hand expectantly, “Can I see?”

Sherlock lifted his hand and John hissed air through his teeth, “Did a number on this, didn’t you? Look, stay still while I grab my kit and sweep this up.”

Sherlock nodded in compliance and John pushed himself from the floor, rummaging through the cabinet for a hand brush and his kit and making short work of sweeping the mirror shards into a small pile that he disposed of quickly before turning back to his flatmate.

He opened up the kit and began to pick the glass from Sherlock’s hand, “Do you want to tell me what that was all about then?”

Sherlock numbly shook his head and John sighed, “Sherlock, you’re not all right. What is going on with you? You don’t normally have a reason to punch the singular mirror we own.”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip and remained silent as John went about plucking out the glass and cleaning the wounds.

“You’re replacing that, I hope you know,” he teased as he finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. His eyes creased in an honest smile and he tilted his head, “You’re bloody insane. You know that, right?”

Sherlock actually grinned and John chuckled as he finished wrapping the wound, “First it’s your arm, then it’s your hand; you’re running out of appendages to damage, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed a weak laugh and John wrapped his hands around the bandages and met Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m here for you; you know that right? If something’s going on, you can talk to me about it.”

Sherlock felt warmth in his chest and nodded, lowering his gaze to the floor. He suddenly felt heat flush in his face and through his body as a pair of warm lips pressed to his forehead before John’s head leaned against his own. When he spoke, sweet tea-scented breath tickled Sherlock’s face, “Do you think you can get up?”

The uncharacteristically soft-spoken detective nodded and as John stood and extended his hand, he took it and pulled himself up.

Sherlock’s phone chimed in the background and John shook his head, “Sherlock, I don’t think we should go. You need to sleep and eat and _not_ chase down God-knows-who through the streets of London.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and swallowed the lump in his throat, obviously bracing himself for the outside world, “I’m fine, John. Thank you.”

He took a leap of faith and bent forward to reciprocate the comforting sensation of lips to John’s forehead before straightening his jacket and slinking back into the sitting area.

John’s face flushed and his brain short-circuited as the detective sauntered past him.

_What the hell?_

He physically shook his head in order to regain his conscious thought, spinning on his heel and chasing down the man as he heard the front door latch shut.

“Hey! Wait up!”


	3. No Post

“Well come on then.”

John extended a hand into the cab and his voice pulled Sherlock from his examinations of the pictures from Lestrade.

Sherlock unconsciously grabbed the steady hand and hauled himself from the cab while John reached for his wallet and paid the cabbie. He craned his neck and scrutinized the surrounding area as well as he could.

_About three blocks from Club 826. Drug-ridden area, no one would have questioned a sexual encounter in an alley, and especially wouldn’t have done anything to stop it._

He stepped forward with John on his heels and ducked underneath the crime tape.

“Hullo boys,” Lestrade greeted them with a grim smile. _(Hasn’t slept since yesterday morning. Another fight with wife- God why doesn’t he just leave her? Fingers twitching for a cigarette, but he’s quit again.)_ “The poor bloke is over there, come on,” he said plainly, pointing behind a dumpster farther into the alleyway.

John pulled up close to Sherlock’s side and plucked on his heavy overcoat, “Sherlock, it’s terrible weather out. If you start to feel ill we _need_ to go home.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and expanded his stride, leaving a grumbling doctor scrambling to catch up muttering curses under his breath. Indeed, the weather of the afternoon had taken a turn for the worse, and the winter chill was intensified with storm that had swept in from the north, bringing along frigid rain and ghastly gales.

Sherlock flipped his collar up again and ruffled a hand through his hair to expel the rain as he ducked underneath the small tent the Yard had set up in order to attempt to preserve the crime scene.

The victim lay face down on the drenched pavement, scarlet pooled around them and staining his dark skin, with his trousers pulled to his knees and the evidence of his assault evident to even the most unperceptive mind (Anderson).

The detective crouched down and examined the man’s trousers as Lestrade rattled off superfluous information.

“Michael Gentry, thirty-two years old, worked at an apartment complex in Westminster, went out with his friends last night and was reported missing around eleven p.m. Some teenager, I dunno- probably looking for a fix, found him this morning and called us, but didn’t stick around for an interview.”

John sighed and shook his head, “Exsanguination, yeah?”

Lestrade nodded and ran a hand through his silver hair, “Yup, exactly the same as the other three. I’m still curious as to why he skipped a victim. It’s not even like he was late. It was like he just skipped the day in his calendar and spared us the trouble of finding someone.”

Sherlock prickled and stood straight up as he directed the conversation to himself, “There are traces of the dust present on all the other victim’s clothes. He was picked up at Club Eight-Two-Six and brought here. I would check their security cameras for anyone leading him out of a back door or perhaps carrying him through the front. He reeks of alcohol, so it wouldn’t have taken that much to overpower him.”

Sergeant Donovan clicked her heels as she approached the crime scene and shook her head, “Poor sod.”

The tall detective bristled and his stomach ran cold as he turned towards her with a snarl, “This man was stolen away, brutally _raped_ , and was forced to watch his own exsanguination and the _best_ you can come up with is ‘ _poor sod’_? Your stupidity and callousness astounds me.”

“What did you say, _freak_?” The sergeant chirped as she met his vicious gaze, plucking her chin out as if daring him to speak again.

He narrowed his steely eyes and he spat contempt, “You heard me, _Sally_. Your attitude is disrespectful and unethical. The least this man deserves is respect from the contemptible likes of an incompetent sergeant such as yourself.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, watching the battle of barbs between the two.

Donovan sniffed a mirthless laugh and crossed her arms, “Since when did _you_ start to care about our victims, freak? They’re all just _puzzles_ to you! Oh! Does this one strike a nerve? This alley put you on edge ‘cause of a drug deal gone tits up?”

“ _Enough_ , you two!” Lestrade hollered, placing himself between the heated investigators. Sherlock’s bandaged fist trembled with the desire to lay a decent slap on that chestnut cheek, but he let his nails bite into his palm and straightened himself instead; nostrils flaring with irritation. Lestrade turned to either side as he spoke, “Sally, go help Anderson with forensics on the scene. Sherlock, finish with the victim so we can get on with this investigation, _alright_?”

Donovan eyed Sherlock up and down again before retreating back into the rain with a huff. Lestrade turned back to the detective and cocked a brow, “What was all that about then?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched with ire, “You should do us all a favor and muzzle her.”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed as he gripped the detective’s arm forcefully, “What is wrong with you today? Can we just examine the body so everyone can go home?”

Silver eyes narrowed at the doctor until he sighed and kneeled back down towards the body, “He might have been intoxicated when he was taken, but he was conscious and lucid for his assault and murder. He struggled… _hard_.” He lifted the man’s shirt to expose the bruises that made his similar ones ache in sympathy.

Lestrade puffed out his cheeks in exasperation, “Christ. I wish the guy would just make a mistake already. He should be leaving _something_ for us to work with.”

Sherlock shook his head woefully, “He’s not devolved enough, yet. He’s quick and efficient. He overpowers his victims, has his way, and takes any evidence with him. He humiliates them and leaves them to die like a coward.”

John kneeled down next to his suddenly pale friend and leaned in close, “Sherlock, are you all right? I’ve never seen you get so worked up over a case before.”

“I’m _fine,_ John,” Sherlock snarled as he focused his attentions back on the victim lying prone on the ground. He gripped the man’s wrist and held it up to examine it, muttering to himself as he inspected the jagged lines indicative of a struggle. _You fool. Why did you fight?_

He felt himself sway as a wave of exhaustion washed over him and he blinked the fatigue from his eyes, turning back to the body. Suddenly, the victim’s skin appeared white as snow and his clothes resembled a jet black suit. He followed the seams of the bloody clothes and was shocked to see a wild head of ebony curls soaked in rain and blood and sightless pale silver eyes staring back at him through a mournfully lidded expression.

“Christ!” He yelped as he jerked back and fell on his backside away from the body, hands rubbing vigorously at his eyes until swirls of pressure filled his vision and a warm hand gripped on his wrist.

“Sherlock! Are you all right?”

The detective swallowed hard before opening his eyes and seeing a familiar pair of dark brown eyes gazing back at him. Lestrade spoke, but his lips didn’t match the words he heard.

_“You’re so damn tight!”_

Sherlock swallowed the air and thrust himself away from the D.I. with all of his strength, “Get _away_ from me!”

The silver-topped D.I. only crept closer towards him and although his face seemed to turn down in a concerned grimace, his voice echoed demeaning humor, _“I can imagine what a good fuck your Johnny gets out of you!”_

“Shut up!” The detective cried as he pried himself from the wet floor and backed against the wall of the alley, rain showering him as he searched for the best route of exit.

Suddenly warm hands cupped his face and the detective’s wide eyes looked down at a considerably concerned blonde doctor, “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

The panicked detective stammered as he shook his head and pointed to the body on the alley floor, “The-the _man_!”

John furrowed his brow in confusion, “The man? What man? Greg? Sherlock, Greg is not going to hurt you.”

The detective shook his head fervently and he felt his cheeks flush from the cold, “The man- the man in the mirror!”

“What?” John shook his head and lifted his other hand so that both cupped Sherlock’s cheeks, “Sherlock, did you take something? I _need_ to know.”

Sherlock growled and gripped mercilessly at his hair, “For God’s sakes, John, I haven’t taken anything but I might if you don’t stop pestering me!”

The doctor rolled his eyes then narrowed them as he looked more carefully at Sherlock’s, undoubtedly noticing the purple bruises underneath and dilated pupils, “Sherlock, when is the last time you slept?”

The detective rolled his eyes, but it disturbed his equilibrium and he swayed forward into John’s arms. The doctor gripped him tightly around the chest and held him against the wall as he repeated the question with new-born urgency, “Sherlock, how long have you been awake?”

Sherlock’s head swam and his eyes fluttered shut as he murmured, “What day is it?”

“It’s Thursday, Sherlock. Answer my question.”

He knew this answer. Hadn’t he just talked to himself about it? It couldn’t possibly be that hard. He pinched his brow and leaned his forehead against John’s damp leather jacket, “No- no post.”

John rattled his head as he tried to find an underlying meaning, “No post? You mean mail? No mail- Jesus, Sherlock! You haven’t slept since _Sunday_?”

He felt a groan escape his throat and his knees buckled beneath his suddenly heavy frame, but the sturdy doctor prevented him from crashing to the wet floor by catching his arm over his shoulders.

“Christ, you’re gonna kill yourself, Sherlock.” The doctor hailed the D.I. to his side and the older man carefully wrapped Sherlock’s wounded arm around him, hauled him to the side of the street and helped John fold the detective into his car.

Sherlock slumped against the chilled window, his heated skin fogging up the pane and John placed a chilled wrist at his neck.

“Are you coming down with something, too? God, you bloody idiot.”

 

***

 

“God, for being so damn skinny, you’re bloody dense!”

John huffed as he half-carried Sherlock up the stairs, through the sitting area and into the detective’s room laying him down on the bed before straightening his back with a few age-telling cracks.

“Come on, budge up,” he patted Sherlock’s shoulder until he sat up and John was able to help peel the sopping clothes from his body. As soon as he tried to help slip the silk button down from his friend, the detective seemed to sober up and gripped the shirt to his chest.

“Stop! I’ve- I’ve got it.”

John raised his hands and stood, making his way to the door, “Get some sleep, would you? I’m telling Greg not to call you for anything for two days. They can make do with what you gave them.”

“John…”

“Hmm?”

While John still had his back turned, Sherlock shimmied out of his wet clothes and into his sleep attire, shifting uncomfortably on the bed and clearing his throat, “Don’t-”

The doctor turned, watched Sherlock sway as he tried to remain upright, and sighed, nodding his head wordlessly. He retreated from the room and Sherlock pursed his lips in disappointment before watching the doctor return fully clothed in sleeping trousers and T-shirt.

The doctor sat down on the bed with his back to the headboard and fixed one pillow behind his back while laying the other one across his lap, shrugging at Sherlock’s furrowed brow.

“If I’m gonna be here, I might as well get comfortable. Now come on before I change my mind.”

The detective slipped under the duvet and shifted positions to lie on the farther side of the bed, but John patted the pillow on his lap, “Put your head down; it’ll help you sleep better.”

 Sherlock seemed to roll the offer around in his mind before finally resting his head on the pillow facing towards the room, curling in a question mark parallel to John’s body. John’s heart fluttered in his chest as the mop of curls pressed back against his waist and his hand hovered for a second before finding a home, running his deft fingers through the taller man’s curls.

The detective nodded as if he were nestling into the pillow and John watched curiously as the man’s ankles rubbed against each other like a cricket preparing to play its evening serenade and John smiled as the man in his lap hummed unconsciously at his ministrations.

“You’re all right, Sherlock,” John mumbled as he watched the detective’s long lashes blink in longer intervals until they finally fanned out over his cheeks, “I’ve got you.” Full lips parted and soft breaths slipped in and out, sending warmth into John’s chest as he continued to card through Sherlock’s mane.

Deciding to try his luck, he began to prod the man for answers as he lost consciousness.

“Sherlock,” he whispered as he twirled a curl with his finger, “who did you see today?”

The detective clicked his tongue against his palette and his hand slipped from the pillow onto John’s right thigh above his knee as sleep addled baritone grumbled against him, “The man… in the mirror…”

John smirked as the rubbing ankles began to slow in correlation to Sherlock’s slowing breaths, “What did the man in the mirror do?”

Dark eyebrows pursed and the doctor winced as a wide hand gripped his thigh muscle tightly and Sherlock’s words began to slur together, “Pain… _Blood…”_

“Does he give you nightmares?” John prodded, sliding the damp curls from his face. “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?”

He was surprised to hear something not unlike a whimper escape Sherlock’s throat and his petting hand paused, “In the dark… In the _mirrors_ …”

Realization dawned on him and he shook his head, “You saw him in the mirror, that’s why you smashed it. You great idiot.” His hand paused its petting as he ran through the timeline of the last week, “Sherlock, is the man in the mirror the one murdering those men? What did he _do_ to you?”

Shallow breathing responded to his question and he sighed, sliding his phone from where he had left it on Sherlock’s bedside table.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_I think Sherlock had a run-in with our murderer and he’s not telling the whole story. –JW_

_15:38_

 

Although he was certain not even a fog horn could wake the sleeping detective, he still flicked his phone to vibrate and was immediately greeted with a response.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_I think you’re right. What do you think happened? –GL_

_15:40_

To: Greg Lestrade

_I don’t know, but I intend to find out. –JW_

_15:41_

***

 

Sherlock lifted his hand and turned it before him, noticing the lack of wrapping on his undamaged skin, before sighing into the cool air. Smoke billowed from his shivering lips and he wrapped his coat tightly around his torso as he squinted in the dark.

_Is that… a light? A house?_

Soundless steps took him closer towards the small dwelling and he felt damp grass slide beneath his feet, invisible in the palpable darkness. He peered through the exposed window and felt the soft light shine on the precipitation on his damp jacket. He pressed a chilled palm to the glass and felt a cool sensation as he fell through the wall. Catching himself before he collapsed to his knees he shook his head and wrung the dampness from his hair.

_Fantasy physics will always continue to baffle me._

Finding himself dripping on the tile of an unfamiliar kitchen, Sherlock kept close to the wall and crept further into the house away from the glowing kitchen and into the shadows of the hallway. His fingertips traced the textured wallpaper as he pressed forward, feeling the Victorian designs sway and swirl beneath his touch. He raised his left hand and was surprised to find that it glowed with enough luminosity to light his way through the dark corridor as he paced into shadows.

A quiet bass thrummed beneath his feet and sent shivers down his spine as he pressed forth into the darkness, using his hand to guide the way.

His ears piqued with a sad sound that drifted in the thick air. A moan, perhaps? His palm on the wall jerked as he felt the wall divot before a door frame molded underneath his fingertips. He raised the glowing left hand and traced the door’s edge before carefully unlatching the handle and pressing in.

A room, considerably lighter than the pitch black hall, but still gloomy, appeared and Sherlock raised his head as he examined the chest of drawers that extended to the ceiling and filled the rooms with lines of surprisingly large drawers. Musty wood filled his nostrils as he glanced around, searching for the source of the ominous noise and his fingers traced the wooden handles.

A pained moan escaped from one of the drawers and Sherlock delicately pried it open, jumping back at the sight.

_That’s… disgusting._

A human corpse, not quite decayed, but incredibly emaciated curled in on itself in the drawer as if asleep and Sherlock touched a finger to the wrinkled skull to test the tension of the skin. He had to clap his hand over his mouth to suppress the yelp he made when the corpse’s eyes opened and his head turned towards him. Sorrow was written in the deep lines on the being’s face and its jaw trembled as if he would have cried if his tear ducts were since in operating condition.

_Oh great. I don’t have time for this nonsense._

He began to slide the drawer back in its place before a nagging feeling crept into his mind.

_But John would. John would help. Dammit._

“Do you need help?” Sherlock asked sternly, extending a hand for the creature’s scrutinization.

The withered brow lifted as the creature examined the pale extremity. When it spoke, dust exhaled from its lips and cobwebs extended in its jaw. “ _They hurt us…”_ it moaned. “ _They lock us in the dark…”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand again, “Well come on then. If you want out, we need to go.”

The ancient head slowly twisted back and forth, “ _Not safe…”_

The detective sighed in exasperation, “Well if it’s not _safe_ , let me help you get out of here. Why are you being so ornery?”

The creature lowered his head in defeat and shook with dejection, repeating its last phrase, “ _Not safe… Not safe…”_

Frustrated, Sherlock waved him off and walked towards the other drawers, pulling them out and furrowing his brow as everyone repeated the pattern: complaining of pain, yet unwilling to do anything to alleviate it.

“Idiots!” he exclaimed as he waved flippantly at the moaning bodies extended from their beds.

Suddenly, the floor fell away from his feet as his entire weight was knocked to the side and he felt his body slam one of the open drawers shut, much to the chagrin of its inhabitant. He raised his glowing hand and the light illuminated the attacker’s face: a Behemoth of a man, topped with sandy hair and fury-stricken jowls.

The detective hollered out as the monster straddled him to the ground, landing a firm forearm across his thin chest.

“Get off!” He growled as he rolled out from underneath the creature and hustled to the door, slamming it behind him and flicking the lock on the handle. He panted as the door pounded menacingly at him and he turned back down the hall whence he came.

 _Altruism is illogical,_ his mind muttered as his leather soles pounded the dark floor.

He skidded across the tile floor as he turned back into the kitchen where another man greeted him quietly from across the room.

Bright blonde curls wrapped around his head and the suit-clad man paced nonchalantly before the detective.

“Who are you?” Sherlock queried as he regained his breath and straightened his back; his silver eyes darting between the stranger and the door.

The blonde lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze, pacing to the door and leaning against the frame as a wry smile painted his lips.

_“Wouldn’t you like to know?”_

 

***

 

John had thought about moving when Sherlock finally fell asleep, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to part with the detective. Something about this man trusting him to keep watch as he slept sparked a fire in John’s chest and he continued to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair long after his cat eyes began to twitch in REM sleep.

The pale hand that rested on his thigh gripped the cloth of John’s sleep trousers like a vice, so the doctor reasoned that if he were to try and escape, he’d have to wake his friend up to release his grip and that just wouldn’t do. Thus, it was _only_ logical that he stay put on the detective’s bed.

He lowered his gaze and couldn’t help the smile that painted his lips. He had half-expected the detective to deduce in his sleep and the softening of his sharp features was almost endearing. His brow, frequently furrowed in concentration, was lax and the detective looked a decade younger with his full Cupid’s bow lips pursed in slumber.

A lash fell on the detective’s cheek, the ebony a stark contrast from the slightly flushed pallor, and John lifted his hand to brush it away before his mind caught up with his heart.

 _Bit not good. This is not appropriate for “just friends”,_ his mind complained as he retracted his hand. _But then again, when has anything you both have done been conducive of a “just friends” relationship?_

John sighed heavily and ran his hand through his own hair in frustration. _Sherlock’s a sociopath, remember? Well, not really, but he believes he is. He can’t care about you. He thinks sentiment is the most egregious of sins. Don’t put your heart on the line just to have it burned._

He chewed on his lip as he watched the detective’s lips twitch in slumber and his heart swelled. He finally decided: _That doesn’t mean you can’t care for him, though._

He brushed the lash from Sherlock’s cheek as his phone vibrated on the bedside table. His hand jerked out to stop the obnoxious reverberations and slid the message open, his stomach dropping as he did so.

 

From: Mary Morstan

_Did you forget?_

_21:32_

 

He slapped the thin phone against his forehead and silently groaned.

 _Shit._ He had completely forgotten about his date with Mary. John actually really liked her: soft lips, supple pale skin, short blonde curled hair, and an earnest smile. She was the perfect candidate for the white-picket-fence dream and her easy-going personality was refreshing.

He reluctantly typed back knowing the conversation was headed south, and _fast_.

 

To: Mary Morstan

_Shit! I am SO sorry! I completely lost track of time! –JW_

_21:33_

The vibration was almost immediate.

 

From: Mary Morstan

_Sherlock?_

_21:33_

To: Mary Morstan

_Unfortunately. He collapsed at a scene and I had to take him home. –JW_

_21:34_

John held his breath as he waited for the storm to unfurl and his phone vibrated in his hand.

 

From: Mary Morstan

_Is he OK?_

_21:35_

 

That hadn’t been the answer he had been expecting- by a long shot.

 

To: Mary Morstan

_Yes, thank you. Idiot went four days without sleep. It’s amazing he didn’t fall out sooner. –JW_

_21:36_

 

From: Mary Morstan

_That’s actually pretty impressive. I’m surprised he could walk at all!_

_21:37_

John smiled and his left hand resumed running through Sherlock’s curls as his right typed back.

 

To: Mary Morstan

_You’re telling me. I’m so sorry, Mary. I can’t come out tonight. –JW_

_21:38_

From: Mary Morstan

_It’s all right. Jennifer is on her way to take your place. Keep your idiot out of trouble! :)_

_21:40_

John chuckled and placed the phone flat on the bedside table again. That was the reason he cared so much for Mary: she _understood_ how important the insane detective was to him and she practically encouraged it.

Sherlock’s throat vocalized some soft sleep murmur and John’s hand rested on the pale forehead before slicking the inky hair back, “You’re all right, Sherlock. Stay asleep.”

He smirked to himself knowing that he should be thankful for the several hours he had gotten, but he couldn’t help but wish the detective would just sleep for the entire day. The detective’s breath seemed to hasten and although he didn’t seem panicked, John began to coddle the sleeping man in his lap.

“Shhh, don’t wake up.”

The parted Cupid’s bow lips trembled until a sharp inhalation caused silver eyes to shot open and dart around the room. John’s hand continued to run through the curls and his soft voice soothed the man in his lap, “You’re okay, Sherlock, I’ve got you. It was just a dream.”

The detective still seemed startled, so John traced a hand down his arm and gripped the clenched hand. “Shhh, just relax. It was just a dream.”

Sherlock panted and allowed his fingers to intertwine with the doctor’s as his heart rate returned to a decent thrum. He blinked long and slow and mumbled into the pillow on John’s lap, “Physics.”

John cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward to catch the detective’s eye, “What?”

Sherlock looked at him sideways and gripped the hand tighter in his own, “Physics. I fell through a wall. As far as I’m aware, walls are still solid in reality. That’s how I know it wasn’t real.”

John chuckled and shook his head, “Only _you_ would scrutinize dreams for flaws in logic.”

The detective lifted the corner of his lips before shutting his eyes again and gripping John’s hand unconsciously tighter in his own, “What time is it?”

John slipped his phone unlocked and sniffed, “Five to ten. How do you feel?”

A dark brow quirked sarcastically, “Like death.”

John laughed and the melodious tone reverberated through his flatmate’s chest, “That’s what you get for being such an idiot! Four _days_ , Sherlock? I know you just think it’s transport, but you have to give it _some_ consideration in your daily routine.”

Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, “Couldn’t sleep.”

John’s hand retracted from Sherlock’s and began to card through the dark locks again, “Nightmares?”

A strange silence rang through the room before the detective nodded in agreement, “Make me forget, John.”

John’s hands jerked as he frowned, “Forget what?”

The corner of his sad, silver eyes pinched tight in pain as the detective uttered a single word into the fabric of his pillow.

 

“ _Everything_.”


	4. Judgment Day

“Play something.”

John pulled the Stradivarius from its case and carefully plopped it in Sherlock’s lap while he stood in front of him with his arms crossed impatiently. “Please?”

The detective plucked up the instrument and traced his calloused fingertips down the polished wood, clutching it delicately to his chest like a fragile China doll.

He couldn’t play. He got lost in his music; how would he hear someone approaching the door? He wouldn’t. No, he’d be caught unawares again and that just wouldn’t do. And anyways, his heart had nothing to sing about. Nothing but melancholy cries would be emitted from the beautiful bow gliding across the strings and John wouldn’t want to hear that. He preferred light and cheery tunes or awe-inspiring works of simplicity; Vivaldi and Brahms, respectively.

He clutched the wood to his chest and shook his head numbly, “I don’t want to.”

John sighed and furrowed his brow in irritation, “Sherlock, you’ve got to _do_ something. You haven’t left the flat in _days_ \- not since you passed out at the crime scene! Please, play _something_ just so I know you’re still alive in there.”

Sherlock’s eyes jerked up and met John’s concerned gaze.

_Of course I’m alive, don’t be an idiot. I’m breathing as we speak. And I’m even dressed, stop fretting._

The detective stood and quietly padded to his case next to his composition window, laying the sweet instrument on the velvet casing and tracing a fingertip over the f-hole, “As I am still breathing and my ambulatory utilities are still functioning, I must assure you, I am very much alive.”

A growl sounded behind him and he heard John’s hand whip through the air, “That’s _not_ what I meant and you _know_ it.”

The detective slowly closed the case lid and sighed, “Then explain your implications more precisely.”

Suddenly a firm hand gripped his upper arm and spun him around to face the irritated doctor, “Sherlock, I need you _here._ ”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and scoffed, “Don’t be an idiot, John. I’m standing right here.”

The grip tightened and pinched the suit cloth against his skin, “Yes, you are, but _you_ aren’t.”

Sherlock shook his head and frowned, “Are you concussed, John? You’re being tedious.”

John hummed in frustration and released Sherlock’s arm, only to lightly smack his chest, “Your body is standing right in front of me, yes. But Sherlock, you haven’t been present in a week! You haven’t blown anything up, called me an idiot- hell, you haven’t even terrorized Mrs. Turner’s cat since I patched up your arm! Christ Sherlock- I didn’t think I’d ever say it, but I even miss your bloody violin at three bloody a.m.! At least _then_ I knew you were _all right_!” His face flushed and the detective took a step back in alarm, “Why won’t you let me _help_ you?”

“I don’t _need_ your help,” Sherlock said coldly, narrowing his eyes.

“If you don’t want my help, that’s fine,” the doctor growled, staring at his shoes before jerking his head back up, fists clenched at his side. “But you need _something_! I’m worried sick about you.”

Sherlock bristled at John’s tone and stretched to his full height, “Since when did my personal wellbeing become your concern?”

John scowled and his Captain’s voice boomed, “I’m your _friend_ , Sherlock! We watch out for each _other._ That’s what friends _do_!”

Feeling emotion constrict his throat and well in his chest Sherlock pounded past the doctor and towards the door, plucking his coat from the hook. He snatched the door open and turned his head with a snarl, “I don’t take care of anyone, John. If that’s what you desire, I suggest you search for it elsewhere.”

“Sherlock, wait-” John pleaded before the wood shivered in its frame as the detective slammed the door in his wake. He listened to the heavy steps pound against the stairs and the front door slam with the same volume before gripping his hair and groaning in frustration.

“Jesus Christ! Damn detective and his bloody issues- I just- dammit!”

He puffed out his cheeks and waved his hand in the air, “It’s fine. It’s _fine._ He’s just being pissy. Just ignore him.”

 _Tea_ , he thought, quietly padding into the kitchen. _I’ll make some tea._

He filled and flicked on the kettle, inspecting a turned over cup for experiments gone awry before deciding to wash it anyways just to be safe. As the Earl Grey steeped, he leaned against the counter and dragged his hand down his face in exasperation as his phone chimed across the room.

_Bugger it._

He squeezed the tea bag and tossed it before slipping in a splash of milk and honey before examining the container in his palms. He tipped it from side to side, watching the viscous sweetness glide and drip and he smiled. If he really needed Sherlock to eat something before his blood sugar dropped through the floor, he could slather a piece of toast in it and the finicky detective never let it sit long.

The amber substance dripped on itself as he turned the container upside straight and he carefully placed it back in the cupboard before picking up his cup and stirring the sweet liquid until it was a bruised leather color. He sipped and hummed contentedly as he kicked off of the counter and padded back into the sitting area; flipping up his phone from the table and sliding the message open.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Seems the murderer is getting bored. He sent the Yard a thumb drive with videos of the rapes and murders on it. We’ve only gone through the first one so far. Do you and Sherlock want to view them? -GL_

_15:45_

 

John dragged his hand down his face and pinched his lip in frustration. How much more Holmes drama was he going to have to put up with today?

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_He just left; I’ll be there in ten. He’ll meet us there. –JW_

_15:52_

 

To: Sherlock Holmes

_The Yard was sent videos of the rape/murders. I’m headed there now. See you there. –JW_

_15:53_

 

John slipped the phone in his back pocket and took a rather impressive swig of his tea before grabbing his jacket from the hook and venturing out into the chill of November air.

 

***

 

From: John Watson

_The Yard was sent videos of the rape/murders. I’m headed there now. See you there. –JW_

_15:53_

 

Sherlock’s heart stopped in his chest and his feet melted into the pavement.

_No. No. I didn’t even see a camera. John can’t see that. Oh my God. I thought this was over._

Frantic fingers tapped against the glass screen as leather soles began to pound in increasing frequency against the concrete ground.

 

To: John Watson

_Don’t go. Whatever you do, stay at home. It’s not safe. – SH_

_15:59_

 

 _Please, please, please, John. Please don’t watch that. I won’t be able to stand your revulsion_.

Sherlock’s stride suddenly became a sprint as he rounded the well-known streets of London on his way to the Yard. With afternoon traffic he knew he’d waste the time trying to find a cab and running was a decent excuse for his thrumming heartbeat and clammy skin.

His phone pinged in his hand and he looked down.

 

From: John Watson

_Could be dangerous? Isn’t that how we started this whole thing? –JW_

_16:03_

If Sherlock could have smiled at John’s sentiment, he would have. However, his heart sank with the reassurance that John was on his way. He would most certainly beat the detective there and who knows how far he’d get through the film before Sherlock could stop its broadcast?

How had he not seen the camera? Had it been hidden up in the rafters? Did that mean that the man stuck around until after Sherlock had limped away with his tail tucked between his legs and he had the entirety of his piteous sobbing as hard evidence?

_Damn him! Damn Lestrade! Damn John! Damn them all!_

His hand jerked out and popped the hood of a car that crossed too far into the walkway as he raced across the street and back onto the other side of pavement. Wind whipped his curls back and forth before his eyes and the chill bit at his nose and cheeks.

If Lestrade knew- if _John_ knew- then he couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. He couldn’t tell himself that the bruises on his hips were from repeated encounters with the tabletop. He couldn’t pretend that the face he saw when he closed his eyes was a figment of his imagination because if they had physical proof, his devotion to objectivity of scientific fact would force him to recognize it as truth.

He couldn’t face that.

Not yet.

 

***

 

“You’re sure there’s not a single bit of identifying information on this bloody thing?” John queried as his stomach churned with disgust. Lestrade and he had spent the last twenty minutes swallowing down bile as they kept their eyes glued to the screen.

Their murderer had not been kind in his ministrations. Sadistic to a tee, the man whose face had been digitally blurred took a sickening amount of pleasure in exploiting his victim’s weaknesses and fears. John had walked in half way through the second video and nearly walked back out into the hall to catch his breath. In the second video, the camera had been placed directly in front of the victim’s face about a meter or so away, so every expression from pain to fear to resignation was painfully apparent to the viewer.

 _Disgusting tokens_ , John’s mind spat as he raked his hand through his sandy hair for the up-thousandth time that day. Each assault seemed to take between ten and thirty minutes and it was nigh five o’clock by the time the third video had begun.

Lestrade hummed his agreement as he wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, “Nope. Had it scanned for relation to a computer, fingerprints; _nothing_. After we finish watching through it, I’m gonna have one of the girls try and clean up the sound track and we might be able to pull something from that. I’ll see if she can fix the video, too, but I’m not sure we’ll have much luck there.”

A teeth-clenching scream reverberated from Lestrade’s computer as the murderer gripped the third victim’s arm and dug his penknife into the skin, crimson spraying out before dripping down the tanned skin in stomach-churning rivulets.

John hunched forward and diverted his eyes from the screen as he stared at the floor. “Why do you think he sent this? Just for fun?”

Lestrade shrugged and chewed his lip as the victim whimpered and shivered as his life fluid drained from his body before him, “He’s bragging. _‘Look what I can do and you can’t catch me!’_ He’s trying to get us riled up so we make a mistake. He’s sadistic; he’s trying to invoke as much pain as possible and he knows how many people are going to have to watch this shit.”

The screen went staticky as it switched into the video of the missing fourth victim. John sat forward in his seat, curious to see who the unfortunate soul would be and why they never found the body. The murderer flicked on the device and stationed it in front of a mirror in what looked like… a ballet studio? _How odd. Not exactly the stereotypical place for an assault._

Suddenly, Lestrade’s office door banged open and a severely disheveled Sherlock bolted in, headed straight for the two men at the computer.

John jumped to his feet, alarmed, “Christ, Sherlock! What’s happened-?”

“Turn that off.” Sherlock spat; his piercing blue eyes alight with madness and his cheeks flushed with the outside cold. When no one moved to shut off the film his voice amplified into a terrifying boom. “I _said,_ turn that _off!”_

“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?” Lestrade barked, standing up and suddenly finding himself nose to nose with the detective. Much to his surprise, the detective’s large palms gripped his upper arms and tossed him to the side away from the computer and onto the floor before he turned around and jerked back in the direction of the currently quiet screen.

Livid, John gripped Sherlock from behind and locked his head in his arms, much to the detective’s chagrin. He began to thrash about, legs grappling for footing and arms flailing with limited mobility.

“Have you gone _mad_? What are you doing?” John shouted, seething as the detective struggled in his arms.

Long limbs clawed at his grip, and Sherlock’s crazed features growled in opposition, “Turn it off! Dammit- why won’t you idiots listen?!”

John furrowed his brow in confusion, not loosening his grip. _Sherlock never curses. He hates it- thinks it’s a sign of a poor vocabulary._

Between Sherlock’s growls and John’s huffs of exertion, the video on the screen in front of the trio played on and hushed footsteps entered the scene. Sherlock’s frantic eyes caught the image of his own soles in the corner of the mirror and his breath hitched in horror. “Let me go! Stop it! For God’s sakes, turn off the damn video!” John stilled as he heard the crack in Sherlock’s panicked voice, “John! _Please!”_

 _Bit not good. When had Sherlock EVER said please?_ “Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked, suddenly concerned, but he never received an answer. Sherlock’s struggling ceased and Lestrade and John caught each other’s eyes as they heard glass shatter and Sherlock’s voice cry out in frustration- not from the man in John’s arms, but over the computer speakers; slowly turning their heads in disbelief.

The earth stopped turning for a moment as all eyes were directed at the computer.

Sure enough, in the mirror was Sherlock’s digital form seething as he struggled beneath the Behemoth of a man, grunting and groaning as his head was bashed against the wooden floor. John gasped and his mind froze on Sherlock’s exhaustion-induced words.

_“The man… The man in the mirror…”_

He repeated it breathlessly as the realization clicked, “The man in the… Oh my God.”

 _“I’m gonna like you. I can already tell,”_ the computer distorted voice murmured barely loud enough for the speakers to pick up.

The Sherlock on the screen growled and his cat eyes were wide and feral as the man reached for the nape of his coat, _“Unhand me, you Philistine!”_

John’s heart stopped in his chest and his arms clenched possessively around the man in front of him. His stomach dropped as the normally baritone bark was reduced to nothing more than a broken whine of defeat. Sherlock’s eyes shimmered with wetness and his knees began to sag underneath him.

The breath was knocked out of John’s chest as the detective hung his head and a hand wrapped around his form on the screen, effectively ending his ranting.

_“You think you’re real clever, yeah? You know, I always like it when they fight; makes it more fun for me.”_

Navy eyes watered as Sherlock’s video-taped threat went unheeded and John’s best friend screamed as his body was violated in such a shameful way. The room was filled with agonizing moans and disgusting grunts of satisfaction as the detective relived his assault in front of his two friends.

_“You should just relax and enjoy the ride, mate!”_

Sherlock knew what words he spoke next and he couldn’t bear to have John hear them now- not like this.

“Please, John,” he whispered, his voice cracking as his chest began to tremble. “ _Please_ turn it off.”

John’s arms released their grip and wrapped around his chest in a backwards hug and he stammered, “For God’s sakes! G-Greg, shut it off! Kill it!”

Lestrade immediately obeyed, freezing the frame on Sherlock’s eyes staring straight into the murderer’s through the mirror, face grimacing in contempt and pinched in anguish. All eyes were suddenly on Sherlock and he felt the life sapped out of him.

John shook his head slowly as he felt Sherlock sag in his arms, “Sherlock, I- I didn’t know. I’m so- I’m so sorry.”

The detective’s knees finally buckled beneath the weight of defeat and John caught his friend in the air, lowering him slowly to the floor and against the wall as his breath hitched in a choked sob. He cupped the detective’s flushed face in his palm and raised it to look in the bloodshot baby blue eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked softly, rubbing a weathered thumb over his friend’s cheekbone.

As was Sherlock’s first instinct, he lashed out, “I don’t need your _pity_ , John!”

John shook his head sadly and wiped away a fugitive tear, his face pinched in sympathy, “And I’m not giving it to you.” He dropped his head in self-vexation and sighed, “I should have known. I know what it looks like; I should have known. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s voice broke as he growled at the doctor, “Your self-depreciation is useless; leave me alone! I don’t need your help!” He knocked John from in front of him and hopped up, swaying slightly as he wrapped his coat tighter around himself and he leaned against the wall closest to the door. One arm curled around his chest and the other waving flippantly, “It was my fault regardless.”

John picked himself from the floor and waved a hand, “Sherlock, you were _raped_.” He whispered the word like a blaspheme and shook his head, “That is _never_ your fault.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned to him, “I don’t understand; of course it is. You told me not to go out by myself and yet, I chased him down and I wasn’t observant enough to notice him coming up on me. I had every chance to prevent this, but I didn’t.”

Lestrade’s gruff voice shocked both the doctor and the detective, “Sherlock Holmes, I don’t care what bullshit you have to spout out about logic, but this doesn’t apply. You should have told us!”

Sherlock laughed mirthlessly and his eyes sparkled with unshed tears of frustration, “ _Why?_ So you could ogle at me like a caged animal? Eyes full of pity and self-loathing over something you can’t repair?”

John gripped Sherlock’s arm, anticipating him flinching away, “Sherlock, that’s not what’s going on here. You don’t need repairing. We’re your friends; we just want to help. None of this is your fault!”

Sherlock waved a hand angrily at John’s body, eyes narrowed, “John, you told me _yourself_ that it was! Make up your mind!”

John’s affronted face flushed as if it had just been slapped and he recoiled away from his friend, “What- I wouldn’t- what are you talking about? I’d never-”

“ _One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself,_ ” Sherlock quoted dully, stunning everyone in the room into silence before John swallowed guiltily.

“Sherlock, that’s not- I didn’t mean- look, I-” He stammered, his resolve slipping with every moment.

“Didn’t mean _what_ , John?” Sherlock snapped, pulling his coat tighter around his waist and hugging his arms to his chest. “Didn’t mean that you’d view me differently? Didn’t mean that now you’re afraid to touch my contaminated skin?” He spat, eying John’s outstretched, yet retracted hand. Sherlock growled, “Yes, well now everyone knows! Does that alleviate the issue? Do you two feel better having learned the inconvenient truth?”

The doctor withdrew his arm and grimaced sadly, “Sherlock, please. I don’t-”

“ _Damn you_!” Sherlock suddenly roared, his eyes pinching tight and rebel saline dripping down his flushed cheeks. “Damn you, John, and your intolerable compulsion to _fix_ things!” He gestured to his chest and heaved a heavy breath, his bottom lip quivering with vexation, “I know it’s almost unfathomable to you, but you can’t _fix_ me, John!”

 John let out a shaky breath and extended his hand to Sherlock, allowing the detective ample time to retreat, before wrapping both arms around him firmly. The taller man hiccupped quietly and pulled away only to be met with a stronger grip. “L-let go, John. I don’t need your-”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted kindly, his voice muffled by the thick greatcoat and scarf. “ _I_ need _you_. You don’t need fixing; you need support and I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner.”

The detective felt his expression pinch with sentiment, so he leaned forward and rested his face in the crook of John’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent of tea and spiced shampoo. Calloused hands rubbed nonsensical circles on his back and a soft voice of stability murmured in his ear, “You’re all right, Sherlock. Shhh, I’ve got you.”

At the last three words, the distraught detective’s knees bowed and his coat billowed around him as he sank to his knees. John eased down with him, cradling Sherlock’s torso against his own, fingers carding through the wild curls. He leaned his cool cheek against the damp, burning one to his side, feeling Sherlock tremble from the contact.

“You’re safe now,” John mumbled, catching Lestrade’s bewildered stare as he cowed and stepped outside of the door, offering them a modicum of privacy before looking back down at the man in his arms. “Come hell or high water, we’ll find this bastard. I promise.”

Muffled sobs of shame and frustration dampened John’s collar, breaking his warm heart. He gripped the man tighter to his chest as if he could absorb the hurt into himself and free the detective from his shackles of pain. Time seemed to stop and John couldn’t help but feel his chest warm with affection.

_Whoever said this man couldn’t feel is an idiot. No, they’re more than that. Imbecilic doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I am so, so sorry. Let me help you. Please let me take away the pain._

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s where the detective fisted the doctor’s jumper on his chest; the musician’s hands trembling as his calloused fingers twisted the fabric nigh to the point of ripping.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John mumbled in his friend’s quivering curls, clutching the man tightly enough that he could feel his thrumming heartbeat against his own.

“The pattern,” Sherlock suddenly murmured into John’s skin, sending shivers down the doctor’s spine with the chill.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock leaned back away from him and scrubbed his face with his sleeve like an adolescent boy, puffed eyes meeting John’s sullen blue ones, “The pattern, John. It’s been three days. He’s going to attack again tonight.”

“Do you know where we can find him?” John questioned, caressing Sherlock’s cheek; warm eyes creased in determination and concern. “Tell me what to do.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and his eyes bounced over John’s features, his brow furrowing as if he were regretting every idea that was flying through his head. Sherlock saw the compassion, the strength, the diligence; everything that made John- _John_. He trusted it. If he could trust nothing else, he could rely on John.

_I’m sorry._

He rested his hand on John’s shoulder before pressing his trembling lips to John’s brow, noting the alarm in John’s eyes at the display of affection.

“Tonight. Come find me.”

John crinkled his nose in confusion, before his eyes lit up with understanding, “Sherlock, what are you-?”

Deep navy eyes rolled back as Sherlock pressed hard between the man’s throat and clavicle, his body going limp and slumping forward against Sherlock’s torso. He gently guided the man’s body to the ground, sliding a hand over the short hair before rising to his feet.

His eye lifted to see his disgruntled face on the screen and he felt the breath knocked from his lungs once more causing him to jerk out from the room and down the hall.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called after him, pausing for a second to look into his office at the unconscious man on the ground. He swiveled around and hollered the detective’s name again, but his target had practically vanished into thin air.

Lestrade ran to John’s side, patting his face and searching for any signs of trauma. _Sherlock’s NEVER been violent before_ , he thought, popping the doctor’s cheek until navy eyes fluttered open and the doctor groaned, rolling over on his side.

“John!” Lestrade called out, rubbing on his back, “John, are you all right?”

Much to his surprise, the doctor sat up and scowled searching around the room, “Sherlock is… a _complete dickhead!”_

“Wait- what?” Lestrade crinkled his nose, “Did he hurt you?”

John shook his head and stood, running to the doorway and looking into the hall, “Where the hell did he go?”

“John!”

The doctor swiveled around and glared at the D.I., “No, he didn’t hurt me! He’s just an arse! Did you see where he went?”

Lestrade shook his head and joined him at the doorway, leading him down the hall, “He just ran out. You don’t have any idea where he’d have gone?”

“No, but I know where he’s gonna be tonight.”

He flicked out his mobile and checked the time: nearly six.

“He’s going after that _monster_ again,” John bit out, palming his phone back into his pocket. “We need to find him before he gets himself bloody well _killed_!”

 


	5. Encore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence, be forewarned.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and appreciations and I hope you all have enjoyed reading!
> 
> Also, if you would like to know which song is mentioned in this chapter, this is the address of the version I envisioned: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dotzGF_9-Sc&feature=kp

_He has to be here SOMEWHERE._

Cat eyes narrowed as Sherlock scanned the crowd for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening. Again, John was going to be furious. But how else was he going to get this murderer out into the open without using his own damaged body as bait? The profile for the man fit: he was a narcissist. The fact that Sherlock had gotten away would vex him to no end and if he had the opportunity to finish the job he’d started, he’d take it up over a new victim.

The plan was perfect.

He inhaled the sickly sour scent of mixed drinks all around him and felt the stick of his shoes to the disgusting patina on the club ground.

_John must have remembered me saying Club 826. He’ll bring the Yard and catch this man in the act. Then it will all be over. All of it._

The detective’s gut swished with acid and his heart beat out of control in his ribcage, telling him that this was very much a _bit-not-good_ plan, but what else could he do? He _needed_ to see this man again. He _needed_ to hold his throat until the light left those ebony eyes and he begged for the mercy he should have shown the detective that night.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw his target enter the establishment for the final time ( _if Sherlock had anything to do with it_ ). This disgusting man had the audacity to wear the exact same outfit- down to the socks in his boots- that he had worn the night he attacked the detective and Sherlock’s stomach flipped at the sight.

_I will kill you._

He remembered that threat and if he had the opportunity- he decided he would take it tonight.

The military-cropped hair swayed with the miniscule air conditioning in the heated club and Sherlock caught a glimpse of the man’s devilish grin, the way his teeth were bared as if he were searching out his next victim of prey.

_“Oh, you want it! You pretty little whore!”_

The vicious voice called within his head and Sherlock shook it and scowled, mumbling to himself, “Shut up. Shut _up!_ ”

The thrumming music in the club threw off his focus and the man’s cajoling only became louder in his mind.

_“You’re so damn tight! I can imagine what a good fuck your Johnny gets out of you!”_

“Be _quiet_!” The detective grabbed at his hair and found himself leaning against a wall with his eyes pinched tight as he forced the images from his mind.

This was a _terrible_ idea. God, he’d been such an _idiot_! He could barely stand to be _touched_ , why did he think he could handle taking down his assailant by himself? _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

He opened his eyes and just as he did so, he felt his throat close up.

_Too much sound. Too many people. Too much input. I need air._

“You all right, mate?” Sherlock heard a concerned voice call at him and he opened his eyes. The man was leaning down over Sherlock’s hunched form and although he couldn’t have been more than a foot or so from him, his voice sounded light-years away. A dark hand gripped his elbow and he jerked his arm back, throwing off his equilibrium and knocking him into the wall.

“Don’t _touch_ me!” He bit, the sensation eerily reminding him of a caged dog.

Round eyes widened in shock and the man held his hands in a placating manner, backing away slowly, “Alright, mate. Just lay off the drink, yeah? I think you’ve had enough.”

Panic welled in the detective’s chest and he gasped in the heavy air of the club, clutching at his heart, hoping that he could make it outside without it giving up on him. His hand traced the wall and with every step, his throat closed up even more until he was afraid he was going to collapse just inside of the doorway.

 _Finally_ , he thrust the door into the back alley open and fell onto the concrete, clutching at his chest and inhaling the cold November air free of the toxins of human breath and the stench of soured alcohol.

_Breathe. You just made a mistake, just breathe. Perhaps he’ll leave a clue on his next victim and you can figure out his identity without coming into contact with him personally again. It’ll be all right, just breathe._

“One, hydrogen,” he mumbled, his jaw chattering and his eyes pinched tight. “Two, helium. Three, lithium. F-four, beryllium. Five, b-boron.”

John’s soothing voice resounded in his head, _You’re doing brilliantly, keep it up. Six, Carbon._

The detective sucked in as much oxygen as he could per breath until he had enough to keep his head from swimming and he stood wearily to his feet, dusting the alleyway’s grime from his trousers and resituating his Belstaff.

_You’re all right, Sherlock. Just go home. Live to consult another day._

Sherlock sighed and raked a hand through his hair as he proverbially tucked his tail betwixt his legs and began to depart from the back of the club.

“ _Gotcha, pretty boy.”_

Sherlock yelped as he felt a terrible constriction around his throat and familiar hot breath on the back of his neck.

“No!” He cried out, gloved hands scratching at the arm that was fixed around his thin neck.

“Came back for more, eh? I knew you liked it; you’re such a little slut for it!” The man growled in Sherlock’s ear with a sinister grin.

_Nononononono, please dear God, not again. I was just being stupid- arrogant- ridiculous- please! Not again!_

“Let me be!” He growled, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground as the man lifted him in the air from behind.

“You got away once, little fishy,” he grumbled in Sherlock’s ear, his hot tongue slicking up his pale neck. “But I don’t make mistakes twice.”

The pressure built up in Sherlock’s head from the lack of oxygen and he could barely keep his eyes open.

_Not again. Anything but this again._

He suddenly felt the cold asphalt against his cheek as the man slung him to the ground and climbed on top of him.

“You’re not going to do this again,” Sherlock growled, kicking at the man with all of his might.

Instead of heeding the argument, the man caught Sherlock’s ankle and turned it so that the detective was face down on the concrete and inhaling the stench of alleyway and filth.

 _No!_ His mind screamed. _No! Get him off of you, you idiot!_

Sherlock pushed with his elbows and spun around so that he was facing the murderer, thrusting out with his long legs at the man’s abdomen. The attack hit its target, but without the force that Sherlock had intended and the man only laughed, taking the moment of Sherlock’s disbelief to force himself between his thin legs and flush against his bony hips.

“You’re right,” he breathed into Sherlock’s face, gripping his struggling wrists and pinning them against the concrete above his head. “I think I want to look at your pretty face this time.”

Sherlock snarled and spat what little saliva he had at the man’s eyes, struggling in his grip enough to free one hand and land a decent punch against the murderer’s left eye socket. The assailant growled and jerked his hand back, pinning Sherlock’s delicate wrists with one meaty hand and holding the other at his throat, pressing hard enough that Sherlock was mildly concerned his esophagus would collapse.

“You’re gonna pay for that you little whore,” he snarled, smiling with devilish intent as he licked a sickening line up Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock grimaced as carbon dioxide began to outweigh the oxygen in his blood and his feet scrabbled weakly against the alley floor for purchase at the awkward angle his legs were at to no avail.

_This is it. You fucked up and now you’re paying for it- again. You deserve it this time, you idiot. You’ll be nothing by the time he’s finished with you._

His vision began to blur as the man above him rutted against his pelvis, giving him a dark reminder of what was about to happen.

_Just kill me now. Just do me the favor of ending my life._

Suddenly, bright colors flashed in his vision as oxygen swam into his system, the weight knocked off of his throat by some unknown deity. Sherlock coughed and sputtered, rolling on his side and attempting to assess his surroundings again.

The man was being held against the wall by some unknown force, the shadow’s strength prohibiting the man from attacking him any further.

He really must thank that shadow sometime. John would thank him- it would only be polite. Sherlock motioned to do just that before his arms decided to give out on him and his head swam as it made contact with the concrete again.

_Too much. Too fast. System Overload. System Shutdown required._

He would have to thank the shadow later for it wouldn’t be much of an expression of gratitude if he couldn’t form the words.

The shadow expanded until it consumed his entire sight and the cool of the asphalt gave way to the nothingness of unconsciousness.

He’d most definitely have to thank the shadow later.

As long as he could remember to.

_CMD [ENTER] shutdown [/s] [/m \\\SherlockHolmes] [/t 28800] [/d [u:] 0:5 [/c "SystemOverloadRequiresTimeToCope"]]_

 

***

 

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

John swore as he entered the dank club and scoured the crowd for the familiar face he longed to see. Greg stood behind him and gestured for two of his officers to scatter and search the premises for the man Sherlock had described when the entire ordeal began.

It was now or never and John was _determined_ to keep Sherlock safe this time.

“I’m going to search the upper floor, John,” Greg said, fighting to be heard over the thrum of the house music. “Yell if you need me.”

The doctor nodded and submerged himself into the sea of human beings.

John had never really been a fan of the club scene, not even as a young man encroaching on the wonders of adulthood. Too much liability, too many stenches and too much bloody noise. He couldn’t fathom any human being in their right mind subjecting themselves to such a disgusting level of “entertainment”.

 _Curly-top, curly-top, curly-top_ , John thought to himself as he searched through the myriad of humans swaying and pulsing along with the music ( _could this really be called MUSIC?). Nope, nope, Christ- I didn’t know you could even make hair that color!_

John raked a hand through his hair and spun around wishing with all of his might that the stupid detective would just _appear_ so John could knock some sense into him and take him _home_. He spun back forward and knocked his face into the chest of quite the Behemoth of a man, bouncing back from the force of it.

“Sorry, mate,” he mumbled looking up and meeting the nearly black irises that glared down at him.

“Watch it,” the gruff voice replied, nearly knocking John to the side as he parted the sea of humans towards the wall of the club.

“Well excuse you,” John huffed to himself as he shook his head and turned back towards the back of the club near the bar. Suddenly, an alarm began to ring in John’s head and he swiveled around, Sherlock’s voice ringing in his mind.

_Six foot- two inches, seventeen stone, dark brown hair- military crop, dark brown eyes- almond shaped, round face._

“Can’t be,” he mumbled, shoving his way through the crowd to follow the path the other man had carved.

_That coat- it looks- oh my God! It’s him! Get back here, you bastard!_

John set off at nearly a sprint and his hand jerked out to grab the man by the collar until he heard a familiar voice cry out over the thrum of the bass.

“ _Don’t touch me!”_

“Sherlock?” John spun around, retracting his hand and searching for the source of the sound through the sea of bodies. He spun back around and cursed at himself- _Shit! I lost him. What about Sherlock, then?_ Finally, navy eyes landed on a crouching figure against the wall on the far side of the establishment and a large, dark-skinned man towering over him. He nudged his way through the myriad of teens and young adults, knocking them from their dances and partners and finding himself losing sight of the detective and his assailant with the enragingly tall young men standing in his way. _Oh how he cursed his father’s vertically-challenged genes._ “Sherlock!”

He finally fell out of the mosh pit and searched the wall, but to his dismay, there was no detective to be found; only the tall, dark man puffing his cheeks out exasperatedly and raking a hand over his waxed head.

John’s heart sunk to his shoes as he pounded against the sticky floor and grabbed the stranger by the arm, jerking him so that John had his full attention.

“What the hell-?”

“That man you were just talking to,” John interrupted, Captain Watson voice implemented, “tall, dark curly hair, bit jumpy; where did he go?”

The tanned man furrowed his brow and shook his head, “I dunno, mate. Maybe out back? Just ran away like he saw a ghost. You know ’im?”

Ignoring the stranger’s question, John bolted down the wall towards the exit into the alleyway.

_Christ, Sherlock- would you just sit still for two bloody seconds?_

John thrust his entire weight against the door and it slammed into the alleyway; the cold air enveloping him and flushing his cheeks. He spun from side to side until a sickening whimper caught his attention.

A little way down the dark alley, John could see him. His stomach dropped at the sight of Sherlock’s leather soles fumbling against the ground around the man John had _just_ seen inside the club. In the dark of night, John could see Sherlock’s long arms pinned beyond his range of motion and the choking sound that escaped his lips set John’s heart on fire.

 _“_ _You’re gonna pay for that you little whore,”_ John heard the man spit at Sherlock as the detective’s struggling began to weaken until his shoes barely scuffed against the concrete and before John knew it, his fist connected with the temple of the man rutting against his friend.

The stranger slumped to the side for only a moment before springing back and aiming a heavy fist for John’s jaw. Experienced as he was, John avoided the hit, landing his own on the man’s solar plexus and another against his crooked nose, breaking it for sure.

In the man’s moment of distress, John lifted him against the wall, pressing the man’s neck with his forearm and grinding it against the brick outlay of the building. The doctor snarled as his eyes met the wild ebony ones above him and blood dripped from the man’s nose onto his coat sleeve.

“You _dared_ to lay a hand on my friend. Do you realize what a shitty idea that was?”

He thrust the man against the wall by his neck again, until he was certain he could see the man’s eyes bulge with the intense pressure, “I should end your pathetic life where you stand, you deplorable piece of shit.” He watched as the man’s face changed colors with the lack of oxygen and he smiled at his gasping. “I could you know. I’m a doctor and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the body can withstand quite a bit before it expires. I could make you suffer- keep you alive and conscious while I break _every bone_ in your worthless body just to watch you _squirm_.”

_“John!”_

The doctor’s head spun to the side where he noticed a rather perturbed looking D.I. staring at him.

“Let him go!” He yelled, quickly closing the distance with a few strides.

John only pressed his forearm farther into the man’s neck and growled, “Greg, this _bastard-”_

“I know!” Greg hollered, walking up slowly with his hands palm-out, “But if you don’t let him go, you’re gonna kill him! Don’t make me arrest you.”

“Dammit, Greg!” John scowled, a bruise forming on his arm from the resistance of the perpetrator’s neck.

“Let him go so he can stand trial, John,” Greg pleaded, silver hair catching the little bit of moonlight that shined in the alleyway. “Make him pay for what he’s done.”

John’s fist clenched and unclenched nervously as he fought internally until he conceded Greg’s point, stepping away and letting the man crumple into a choking heap on the floor.

It was only then that John’s anger dissipated into horror as he finally caught a glimpse of the motionless man lying face down in the alley filth. Pale skin contrasted with the dark ground and ebony curls slipped into a pool of unnamed liquid causing John’s heart to almost stop when he didn’t see the ripples of breath escaping Sherlock’s lips in the puddle.

“Sherlock?”

The doctor sank to his knees and slipped his fingers to Sherlock’s neck praying to whatever deity there was that there was something beating.

“Come on, you bastard!” He cursed his own hand, its trembling increasing with every second the detective’s heart refused to beat.

“Nononono,” John muttered, rolling the man onto his lap and gripping his wrist with a shaking hand. He waited…

_Thump._

He waited another moment to reassure himself it wasn’t a fluke.

 

 _Thump_ _._

 

“Oh thank God,” he sighed, shaking his head. He needed to get a hold of himself; he’d be useless to anyone if he couldn’t even perform his doctoral duties. He dipped his head so that his cheek was just in front of the other man’s nostrils and paused with bated breath. There was a split second of cooler air as the detective inhaled then John reveled in the slight warmth from Sherlock’s satisfactory breathing.

“You’re all right, thank God,” John mumbled, unconsciously rubbing his cheek onto the detective’s in relief. He pulled his limp friend tight to his chest and pressed his lips to his dirty brow, Sherlock’s head lolling onto his shoulder as John resituated himself on the concrete.

“I’ve got you, Sherlock,” he promised the unconscious man, hugging his friend to him and brushing the dark fringe from his damp face. “It’s over now. We can make it go away.”

He cupped the back of Sherlock’s head in his hand and pressed him closer to his chest as he shivered in the chill of London’s November air.

“You’re all right, Sherlock. I’ve got you. I promise.”

 

***

 

_System Startup. CTRLALTDEL. F8 [SELECT] Safe Mode Startup._

Sherlock could feel the velvet texture of the duvet before he could place where the blanket even was in relation to his body. _Suspended animation_ , he thought. _How convenient_.

He inhaled softly and the familiar scents of tea, cotton, and antiquated wood filled his nostrils.

_Baker Street then. How curious._

His hand splayed on the familiar blanket and slid down the length of it, savoring the delicate fabric until-

_What is that?_

Something warm, muscular- something that didn’t belong prevented his hand’s ministrations and long fingers lifted from the fabric to investigate as Sherlock lay in a half-reality of consciousness.

 _Flesh, bone, tendons- a hand._ The fingers slid across the back of _someone’s_ hand until they found the opening between thumb and forefinger and slipped in, allowing the man to grip the familiar appendage fully. He felt his lips curve on their own accord as his fingers entwined with the lax ones.

He would recognize that pattern of callouses anywhere. _Stay John. Just stay here. I don’t need to wake. Never again. I don’t need to thank the shadow or face the harshness of reality if you’re here._

As if the man could hear his thoughts, lax fingers suddenly flexed and gripped back at his and the detective’s heart swelled with heat. His head still swam as his entire system began to come back online, but he felt, before he could hear, the familiar groan reverberate through the mattress as his flatmate groggily regained his wits and shifted his head on the duvet.

 _Sitting in a chair on the bedside, then,_ Sherlock deduced from the angle of the sound.

There was a jerk in his hand and Sherlock prepared himself for the disappointment of John’s revulsion, but was instead pleasantly surprised when the hand gripped his back with an even firmer hold.

There was a groan of wooden furniture just before a light brush of fingers across his brow, pushing the hair from his eyes and a whisper that was barely enough to constitute a sound, “Sherlock? Are you awake?”

Sherlock attempted to open his eyes in order to answer the question, but his mind had other plans and forced him to remain silent.

John waited a moment before resting his head against the mattress again, pressing his lips gently to Sherlock’s knuckles, “That’s okay. You need your rest, I’m sure.”

 _Sleep is boring_ , his mind supplied silently before it began to question the trembling coming from farther down on the mattress.

 _John?_ His fingers gripped at the other man’s hand that in turn clutched back before Sherlock heard something not unlike a sob escape his friend’s invisible lips.

“Sh’lock, I was so worried I was going to lose you,” he mumbled, the sound muffled by the pillowed duvet. “I was _terrified_ I wasn’t going to make it on time and I don’t want to lose you, Sherlock. Please, don’t leave me behind again.”

_I can’t promise that, John. But I can promise that I’ll try._

There was the warmth of lips on his knuckles again that stayed for a long while and the detective’s heart swelled once more.

“When you wake up, please let me help you. Let me take away some of the pain, okay?” John whispered into Sherlock’s hand before he chuckled and began to wipe at his face with his other hand, “Look at me! Crying like a damn bird. Come on, Watson- what are you doing?”

Sherlock was pleased to find that John refused to retract his hand from his as he scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and he inhaled as deeply as he could as he felt the mattress dip with the weight of John’s arms and shoulders again.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled internally at his stroke of luck for the moment. If this had been a dream, it had certainly been a very lovely dream. He could handle dreams like this.

He let his mind fall blank and sway with the metronome of John’s shallow breathing until the darkness of unconsciousness swept over him again.

Sherlock’s hand was still clutching at John’s by the time both men had succumbed to the grips of sleep and for a moment they both lay content and at peace with themselves.

 

***

 

John waited anxiously outside of Sherlock’s door on the couch, sipping nervously on his tea as he waited for the detective to emerge back into the real world. His friend’s system had taken its sweet time in rebooting and the man had lain unconscious for nearly half a day- not that John could complain. The blasted man _needed_ the sleep, but John was half-terrified that he’d just decide to give up altogether and lay there for eternity.

 _Finally,_ the doorknob flicked and John nearly spilled the entire cup down his shirt as he was startled from his thoughts. He spun around and out came a clean-shaven, well-kempt, familiarly polished-looking Sherlock Holmes. His entire frame was clad in the daring aubergine shirt accented by the sharp ebony suit that cut Sherlock in all the right ways.

“Good morning,” John tried to regain his composure by straightening on the couch and attempting not to let Sherlock catch him watching his every move.

The detective glanced down at the doctor and lifted the corner of his lips in a small, but genuine smile, “Good morning, John.”

John cleared his throat as he set down his teacup and sat forward on the sofa, “Did you- erm- did you sleep well?”

The question seemed to catch the detective off-guard and cat eyes met John’s for a moment before Sherlock looked away and nodded silently.

 _Small victories,_ John thought with a smile, picking up a book from the coffee table and sticking his nose in it. “Good. That’s really good.”

Sherlock stepped with sure feet around the flat, breathing in something certainly akin to freedom. Today had been the first day Sherlock had been able to walk out of his room and _know_ that his assailant was in the custody of the Metropolitan Police and it felt… _wonderful_. He still wasn’t quite sure if the dream he had of John’s hand entwined with his was a reality or not, but even the _idea_ of it warmed his chest. He felt as his spine straightened and his shoulders spread with the relief of reality’s justice and for a moment he felt truly _content._

As he had put on his trousers that morning, he had noticed that the bruises of Mr. Lucas Wilcox’s (he had learned the name when he opened a text from Lestrade before stepping out of his room) fingertips had all but become yellowed shadows of memories on his hips. For the most part, it no longer pained him to sit or move about in a regular fashion and for the first time in what felt like forever, he had an overwhelming desire to express something besides melancholy and strife.

John nearly jumped as he heard the first strokes of an _A_ and then a _D_ as the detective tuned his wooden instrument for the first time in over a week. He felt his breath knocked from his lungs with relief as his friend pulled the bow across the strings with fluid muscles until the first measure of something Sherlock had once called “ _Slow Air”_ filled the air; apparently it was some song popular with fiddlers who needed a tune to play at the end of evenings when the majority of their energy was sapped from them.

His bow glided on the strings of his Stradivarius and Sherlock felt, for the first time since he’d been attacked, a moment of solace; a moment of contentment in listening to and feeling the music pour from his fingertips again. The happy tune reminded him of stories he’d once read as a child of a little creature called a “Hobbit” that lived in comfort and peace in his little hole in the ground. He’d puff little O’s on his pipe and sing and dance and drink with the other Hobbits in the lovely land of the Shire until a wizard came and took him away on a brilliant adventure from which he was afraid he would never return. Either way, the pull of the bow resonated the sensation of Autumn leaves and soft winds on large plains of grass; the scent of warmed honey and the sound of a crackling fire.

John grinned as he watched the man he called his best friend sway and finally allow himself to be filled with something besides self-loathing and fear and he closed his eyes to soak it in.

But alas, contentment can only last so long.

A familiar chime trilled from across the room, causing John to pry himself from the comfort of the sofa and traverse the short distance to the kitchen where he left his phone to charge.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_How is he? -GL_

_11:29_

John smiled as he tapped a message back. Sherlock could be an arse all he wanted, but Greg Lestrade was a good friend (whether or not he ever admitted it).

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_Tons better. I think he’s finally coping. –JW_

_11:30_

Sherlock’s arms expanded as he dragged the last note out, holding it for the entire length of the bow until he clutched the Stradivarius to his chest like a long-lost friend.

“That was beautiful,” John commented quietly, earning him an earnest smile from his companion who delicately laid the instrument in its case and bowed his head. Sherlock didn’t know how long this sensation of relief would last or if he could get even through the night yet without nightmares, but the fact he could allow himself to play surely meant _something_.

John’s phone trilled in his palm again.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_That’s good to hear. I’ve got another weird one if you think he’s up to it. Nothing remotely related- promise. I defer to your judgment. -GL_

_11:33_

John worried his lip in his teeth as he watched the detective scuttle around the flat. He still seemed hyper-aware of everything around him, especially of his own movements, and still hyper-sensitive about personal boundaries, but besides that he seemed to be coping just fine. Perhaps knowing the man who had attacked him was behind bars alleviated a majority of the apprehension Sherlock felt about the world.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_What’s happened? -JW_

_11:35_

The response came almost immediately.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Bloke’s heart gave out on him in the middle of supper and wife thinks the maid did it. Might cheer him up to yell at someone. -GL_

_11:35_

 

John couldn’t help but concede the point; Sherlock most definitely enjoyed ranting.

“Hey,” John stated as he gently reached for the detective’s arm out of habit, not looking up from his phone. As soon as contact was made, though, the detective swung around and grabbed the doctor’s wrist in a vice grip causing him to cry out and drop the mobile in an attempt to pry the long fingers from their painful hold.

“Sherlock!”

Said detective seemed to stop breathing and his eyes glossed over as if he had checked out for a moment before the cat eyes cleared and his expression dropped into shock. He immediately released John’s arm and backed away with his hands up, seemingly cowing back and unable to meet John’s eyes.

“I’m sorry- John, I-”

“No, I’m sorry,” John interrupted, rubbing on his wrist gingerly. “I should have known. I didn’t realize you were still so-”

“Emotionally damaged?” Sherlock spat venomously, glaring at his offending hands in disdain.

“Tactilely defensive,” John suggested with a half-smile. “I’ll be more careful.”

Sherlock’s demeanor suddenly shifted and John could practically feel the detective closing back in on himself, “You shouldn’t be afraid of me, John. I’m being entirely too emotional- this is completely-”

“Normal,” John finished, stepping in front of his friend and extending his hand to allow him ample time to back away. “You were assaulted, Sherlock. It’s not just going to go away overnight. And I’m not afraid of you. I just don’t want to scare _you_.”

“I’m not a child, John,” Sherlock protested, narrowing his eyes.

John reached out and pulled Sherlock’s fist from where it was crossed over his chest defensively and Sherlock watched curiously at John’s ministrations. The doctor peeled back his fingers, splaying open his hand and slid his own palm flush against Sherlock’s surrounding his one large hand in both of his smaller ones.

“Do you think I’m a child for having nightmares about Afghanistan?” He asked quietly, gripping Sherlock’s hand in his like a prayer. At the detective’s shaking head, John continued, “It’s the same thing, Sherlock. It’s going to take _time_. Do you trust me?”

The consultant’s eyes widened and darted around John’s face as his pulse began to skyrocket. _Trust John? Of course you do. If no one else, you can trust John._ Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he nodded and John smiled.

“Okay then,” he said cheerily. “I’m going to try something and you tell me if it’s too much alright?”

At Sherlock’s silent assent, John retracted one of his hands and began to unbutton Sherlock’s jacket sleeve, pulling back the black material before looking back up at the paling face, “All right?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as plates and John could see his chest expanding rapidly with each breath, but he seemed to steel himself and nodded, watching John’s every movement.

The doctor’s deft fingers then undid the cuff buttons, allowing the material to be pulled up to Sherlock’s forearm exposing his bandages. John placed a palm gently on the wrapping and smiled at his friend, “See? You’re doing great. You’re not broken, Sherlock; I just need to do things where you can see them. It’s a completely rational notion.”

Sherlock’s fingers fisted again and although he wanted nothing more than to show John how _not-damaged_ he was, he couldn’t help but jerk his arm back to his chest and clutch it possessively. John smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets, “One day at a time, Sherlock. Just don’t shut me out, okay? I’m your friend, so let me be that.”

The consultant nodded silently before pursing his lips, “Lestrade has a case for us.”

It wasn’t a question and John hummed as he thought about telling Sherlock the truth and dipped to the ground to retrieve his abandoned mobile, “ _Well-_ ”

“You glanced at me six times while I was playing and that means that either you were thinking about me in a way I don’t believe you do or you were talking about me to someone. The frequency you looked makes me believe you were debating at whether or not I had the capacity to handle another case right this moment, which I assure you I do.”

John’s jaw dropped minutely as he scowled, “You were turned around for God’s sakes!”

Sherlock’s face became a grin as he reached out for John’s mobile, “What is it about?”

John shrugged, handing it over, “Just another boring murder. He said- she said nonsense.”

The detective tapped on the phone and scowled, “Well he can’t be saying much, John. He’s dead.”

“Well I _know_ that, Sherlock!” John pouted, snatching his phone back and tapping on the screen. “I don’t think we should go out just yet.”

“What better way for me to readjust than to get back to my normal regimen?” Sherlock pleaded, looking John in the eye.

John had to admit, it was better than any plan _he_ had, but he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that _something_ would go wrong, “Fine. But I need to know the _moment_ you feel overwhelmed, okay? We don’t need you having a panic attack on Anderson because he’s being a prick.”

Sherlock scowled and swiveled around to fetch his coat from the post, “I can assure you, John, as long as I can focus, Anderson will be the least of my concerns today.”

 


	6. Bleeding Barrels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Rape recap and suicidal thoughts are expressed in this chapter.

It had never bothered John that Sherlock had no personal boundaries, and especially now, as Sherlock stayed within John’s breathing space, he had absolutely no qualms. The detective had made it out of the flat and into the cab without clutching to him like a frightened child, but as soon as they were on the steps of the NSY building, John felt a pinch of fabric at his elbow as if Sherlock was grounding himself through the miniscule contact.

“You all right?” John asked quietly as they climbed the short steps towards the building in the chilled November air.

“Fine,” Sherlock bit out curtly, knowing he was anything but. He knew he was cowering behind his friend, but he felt _off._ Something about this building. Something about these people. _Something_ was a bit not good and it sent his gut into his leather shoes.

“Okay,” John mumbled back, opening the door and allowing the two of them in from the cold.

Immediately, Sherlock’s spine tingled with premonition and he could feel his hand trembling at his side.

 _He’s not here. Stop panicking. You’re being ridiculous_.

He retracted his hand from John’s arm and forced himself to stand as tall as he could muster. His skin still formicated with the ghost caresses of his assailant’s lips and his heart stuttered with every brush of another person’s body against his in the hallways, but he was at least _starting_ to cope.

_God, when was everything going to get back to NORMAL?_

He fisted the pockets of his overcoat and followed the doctor towards the lift, his palms sweating as he noticed the multitude of people joining them. He rolled his knuckles as he pinned himself against the farthest corner, feeling his head swim as the bodies piled in around him and swallowed the air from his lungs.

_Breathe. Stop panicking. Just stop it._

He lifted his chin and set his jaw in an effort to reassert his strength, but as soon as someone knocked into his chest, he could feel his legs jiggle beneath him and the breath was knocked from his throat. They muttered an apology, but Sherlock barely heard it over the sirens in his head warning him of every other human being in the small lift.

_Too many. Too close. Look, breathe. No one’s going to hurt you. It’s all over now._

He pinched his eyes shut and leaned hard against the wall, humming a droning note quietly to himself to focus his thoughts.

Suddenly there was warmth on his hand, tugging him away from the wall and back out into the hallway with one swift motion.

“John,” he said softly, still regaining his nerve. “What-?”

“Never liked lifts much myself. So many people in such a tiny place- terribly unsanitary business,” he interrupted nonchalantly, pulling Sherlock along the hallway towards the stairwell. He looked up and smiled at him as he pressed the door open, “Anyways, it’s only four floors up and I’m sure we could use the exercise. God knows all you’ve done today is laze about.”  

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but then flushed as he understood John’s rationale.

_God, John really is a saint. I could kiss him._

He watched silently as the doctor bounded up the numerous steps and turned to give him a slight smile, “Well come on, then! Greg’s not gonna wait all day for us.”

Sherlock’s chest warmed as he slowly took the first set of stairs behind his companion. With every step he regained a bit of confidence and before he knew it, he raced past the older man up the last set of stairs onto the fifth floor.

He could do this. He just needed to take it slow, like John said.

He pressed his weight against the door and popped it open, ushering the slightly panting doctor through it and towards Lestrade’s office down the hall. A chill ran up his spine as he continued to walk forward, feeling as though every eye in the hall was on him.

 _How pretentious,_ he thought to himself, keeping his yes forward. It wasn’t uncommon for large crowds of people to ogle at him and the truth was he reveled in it most days. A show-off has nothing if he doesn’t have an audience to impress, so being in the spotlight was nothing uncommon for the detective. But out the corner of his eye, he caught a young woman jerking her head back into her cubicle after widening her eyes at him as he passed and he spun around. Nearly half a dozen men and women shrunk back into their cubicles, shying away from his roving eye.

 _Now I know I’m not being paranoid_ , he growled internally as John cocked a brow.

“You all right, there?”

Sherlock spun back around and his cat eyes bounced over the different faces that turned towards him, “Fine, John.”

_The hell do they think they’re looking at?_

He kept his head down, but his eyes continued to scan his surroundings, never meeting a pair of eyes that wasn’t immediately diverted, nor a kind smile. Just expressions of… was that _pity_?

He shoved the thought from his mind as he pressed Greg’s office door open with a bit more force than necessary, startling the D.I. who happened to be reading a case file in his hands.

“Christ, Sherlock!” He hollered, jumping to his feet. “Don’t you know how to walk into a room like everyone else?”

“Tedious,” Sherlock scowled, slumping on a chair in front of the desk. Lestrade’s eyes bounced from the detective to the doctor who silently joined them as if he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to say.

“I don’t need coddling,” Sherlock stated curtly, glaring at the D.I., daring him to say something contrary.

“What? I’m not-” Lestrade stammered, resting the file on his desk and meeting the detective’s glare. “I’m not coddling you, Sherlock. Just watching which toes I step on.”

“Well stop it,” Sherlock snapped, jerking the file from Lestrade’s desk and flipping it open. He scanned through it for a moment before looking up with a cocked brow, “Accidental suicide. It’s as if you didn’t even try, Lestrade.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped and he jerked the file back from him, “Sherlock, if you’re makin’ this up-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the coroner’s report, “Cardiac arrest caused by an air embolism. He’s diabetic, Graham-”

“Greg-”

“Whatever. From how she holds her arms in this picture, I’d say that the wife suffers from carpal tunnel and arthritis- she’d not be able to pump the syringe for his insulin. Now the maid has the motive- Mrs. Hochberger’s been sleeping with her husband, the gardener and nobody likes a love-triangle- but not the technical skills. She’d not know where to insert the syringe without causing reparable damage, so she wouldn’t risk it. Although, I suggest you send an ambulance to Mrs. Hochberger’s residence immediately as she is likely to collapse from chlorine poisoning caused by the maid- look at the burn on her wrist- that you should subsequently arrest.” Sherlock waved a hand flippantly, “Now as little as one cc of air can cause an air embolism in an older man- you know that- especially one with heart problems presently, and his fingerprints are the only one on the syringe if the information you collected at the scene was correct.”

Lestrade’s jaw was still open, bafflement painted on his expression, and he slowly sank into his chair, “Oh.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed almost silently, smiling at the detective sweetly as his chest warmed.

Sherlock favored him a quick grin before he felt something nagging in the back of his mind.

_Bit not good._

He could feel his ears pique at the distant noise, but there was no mistaking what it was.

_No- I must be imagining it._

He stood to his feet and furrowed his brow as he slowly walked to the door- somewhat in a daze.

“Sherlock?”

The detective jerked his head back to catch John’s concerned expression before smiling tightly and slowly pulling himself from the room, “I’m fine, John. I’ll just… I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock hugged his Belstaff tightly around his frame as he padded through the familiar halls of Scotland Yard, holding his breath as he rolled his knuckles anxiously.

The static- the crunch of broken glass- it could be _anything._

 _Absolutely anything,_ he reassured himself as he traced the wall with his shoulder, finding that every step sapped more energy from his system.

His fingertips dusted the drywall as he turned into a silent corridor lined with rooms shut off from the curious eye by locked doors. Then his irrefutable evidence practically smacked him in the face.

_“You like it, don’t you? You little fuckslut!”_

His heart stopped in his chest as the realization came to fruition.

_Someone was WATCHING it._

His legs turned to jelly and his coat billowed around him as he slumped next to the doorway of Room 519 and his lungs refused to pull the oxygen from the air.

His entire frame seized in a painful retch as he could hear his own screaming through computer speakers and someone _laughing._

“Fuckin’ arse deserved it if you ask me.”

Sherlock shook his head and his shaking fingers pulled at his dark curls. He was imagining this. Perhaps he hadn’t received the night’s sleep he had thought he had and now his exhausted brain was over compensating? Perhaps this _was_ the dream?

“Nah, mate. Nobody _deserves_ this. But, I mean he sort of asked for it, chasing ‘im down like that.”

The wind was knocked from his gut and he choked. There were _people_ in there. _Multiple_ people were watching his violation like it was some independent _film_.

The original speaker scoffed, “You’re saying that prat doesn’t ask for this on a bloody daily basis? Hell, sometimes I’d like to knock him around a bit- show ‘im how we all like his cocky little attitude.” There was a clap against cloth as if someone was clapping a hand against their knee or someone else’s shoulder. “Hope it knocks ‘im down a few pegs. Perhaps we could make it a monthly thing!”

 _No!_ His mind screamed as his entire body shivered at the thought. Every lingering bruise on his body stung and his gut felt too full as if there were another body inhabiting his and he had to swallow the bile that came up his throat. _This isn’t real. John said it wasn’t my fault. Lestrade said so too. This wasn’t my fault._

Suddenly a revelation struck him that sent tears spilling over his lashes and down his cheeks.

All the looks. All the shamed glances. They all _knew_.

“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, cupping his hands over his mouth and nose and pinching his eyes tight. The saline dripped on the sides of his fingers as he felt his entire body shaking with the truth.

They all _knew._ They had all _watched it._

He was _ruined_. Who could respect someone they’d seen roggered against the floor like a damn doll? Who’d be able to look him in the eye, every time remembering how he wept like a child after another man had pounded into him and how he ran away with his tail tucked between his legs like a beaten dog? He’d never be able to work with the Yard again. What would he do then? If he didn’t have the work, then he would have _nothing_.

What was more was that they had _laughed_. To them, this was _humorous_ ; this was a _game_.

Sherlock’s head swam with emotion and hurt as he heard the man’s voice over the speaker again.

 _“Now comes the_ _real_ _fun part.”_

Sherlock cringed as he heard the cries of the men- all four of them- fill the room. They cried out, not in sympathy or with kindness, but with the same enthusiasm one would have as they watched their favorite footballer being knocked to the ground and kicked in the head by the opposing team.

“How can he just sit still like that while he’s cutting him?” One of the men asked incredulously, his mouth muffled as if his hand were covering it. “I’d have knocked that man on his arse by now!”

The original voice laughed heartily and the sound made Sherlock’s stomach turn, “Maybe he _does_ like it! Always pegged ‘im for a kinky bloke!”

Sherlock shook his head fervently and gripped his knees to his chest.

No. Nonononono. He didn’t want it. He didn’t like it- how could they not see that?

His heart sank. Maybe he _had_ in fact asked for it. By following that man into the room, knowing full and well the dangers, had he not given his implicit consent to whatever horrors would then take place?

His jaw trembled as he pinched his eyes tight and rested his face on his curled arms.

This _was_ his fault. They were _right_. And now everyone in the Metropolitan Police force had watched his demise and they were unaffected. No. They were _entertained_. That’s all he’d ever been anyways- _entertainment_.

Entertain Mummy with a new violin piece.

Entertain Mycroft with a game of deductions.

Entertain a complete stranger with his unwilling body.

He clapped his hand over his mouth to contain the bile that rose and shook his head.

_Your fault. You wanted it. This was completely your fault._

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock peeled open one eye and caught a glimpse of John’s terrified face as the doctor hesitated momentarily before he sprinted down the hall towards him.

 _Don’t let him touch you,_ he thought to himself. _You’ll contaminate him. He’s good and pure and you’re tarnished with pitch._

Sherlock pushed shakily to his feet and held his hands out, holding John back, “Don’t touch me, John!”

John immediately stopped in his tracks and held his hands out placatingly, “Sherlock, whatever’s going on, we can fix it. Just relax, okay? What happened?”

Sherlock glanced at the offending door as he took a shaky step back and misjudged his own height, tripping over himself and falling flat on his back. John knelt to the ground within the second and was motioning to help his friend up before the detective jerked away from him, knocking him over with a thrust to the doctor’s shoulders. “Stay back!”

“Sherlock, what is going on?” John begged, deep navy eyes wet with concern and hurt as he picked himself off of the floor and sat on his knees.

Sherlock felt his eyes drip down his cheeks again as his jaw trembled with emotion. He pushed himself up on his elbows and stared sadly at the doctor; conveying his broken heart through the saline that dripped on the floor.

 _“See you around, mate. It’s been fun,”_ echoed from the room just before a similar hoot at what Sherlock knew to be a swift kick to his gut and John’s entire frame stilled like he’d been shot. Sherlock watched curiously as the man’s fingers became a fist and his pupils dilated with ire just before the doctor hopped to his feet and Sherlock jumped as the door banged open and the yelling match began.

Sherlock’s entire body trembled as he wearily stood to his feet and gripped his coat tightly around his abdomen.

_Get away. Run away. That’s all you know how to do._

 

So he did.

 

***

 

John had waited forever it seemed for the detective to return to the room and he and Lestrade had already exhausted nearly every topic in the encyclopedia of small talk, finally resolving to sit in silence.

“So, erm, how is he?” Lestrade finally attempted, checking his watch curiously.

John cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, “Good, I think. He doesn’t process things like everyone else, so it’s just going to take time.”

“Yeah, of course,” Lestrade agreed flicking his eye to the door.

John got the hint and stood to his feet, reaching for the office door, “I’ll go look for him.”

“Right,” Lestrade nodded at him just before John shut the door behind him and stalked through the hallways of the building. Strangely enough, he felt the weight of a dozen eyes following him as he made the short distance into a conjoining hallway and leaned against the wall. He was used to people staring at Sherlock while he accompanied him- the man was a marvel to admire on both the exterior and the interior- but there were never eyes upon _him_. He wasn’t sure he liked the attention, but that was probably more to do with the fact he had no idea why he had it. He hadn’t done anything of note besides nearly strangle a criminal to death, but that shouldn’t have been of any news to anyone in the Yard. John Watson had a temper and “Woe be to those who cross him” was common knowledge.

So why were people staring?

Suddenly the wind was knocked from his chest and his navy eyes widened in shock. Somehow they _knew_. Everyone assumed he and Sherlock were an item already so it would make _sense_ for them to eye the pair of them when they walked in, but now everyone was watching _John_ to see if _John_ was affected by Sherlock’s rape.

“Oh my God,” John breathed, swiveling his head as he searched up and down the corridor. _I’ve got to find him. Christ!_

John’s soles pounded against the linoleum floor as he glanced between halls, searching for his flatmate until finally-

Said man was curled in a ball against a door, _weeping_. His elegant fingers were knotted in his unruly curls, just before slipping down to cover his mouth and tears stained his flushed cheeks. John’s heart nearly stopped when he heard his friend’s choking breath as if he couldn’t get the oxygen his brain needed to function.

“Sherlock!” He called, nearly tripping over his own feet as his momentum carried on forward and his body twisted to the right.

 _Who had talked to him? What did they say? Christ, if he didn’t get arrested today for murdering someone, it would be a bloody_ miracle _._

The doctor cleared the distance in a few strides, but was surprised that Sherlock held up his hands defensively and seemed to cower away from him as he pulled himself unsteadily from the floor.

“Don’t touch me, John!”

 _Touch you?_ He furrowed his brow. _Did someone touch you_?

John paused and looked the man up and down. Someone had certainly done a number on him and John was _determined_ to find out _whom_. He raised his hands, palm-out and softened his voice, “Sherlock, whatever’s going on, we can fix it. Just relax, okay? What happened?”

His friend’s face nearly broke his heart, tear-stained and flushed and his expression was of pure _terror_. Sherlock took a step back as if to flee from John and obviously mis-stepped, _oomfing_ as he landed gawkily on the floor. John rushed to his side, holding his hand out in an attempt to lift his friend from the ground but suddenly found himself staring at the ceiling as he felt trembling hands thrust against his shoulders, knocking him away.

“Stay back!”

John furrowed his brow as he pulled himself up, his entire body aching with the pain he could practically feel pouring from Sherlock, “Sherlock, what is going on?”

The detective spoke no words, only met John’s gaze with his own; the normally brilliant eyes dulled by pain and bloodshot with tears. He wanted nothing more than to hug Sherlock to his chest and force that trembling jaw to cease, but a dark voice he would never forget mumbled through the door to his left.

 _“See you around, mate. It’s been fun,”_ it jeered.

John felt every muscle in his body tense with sincere revulsion and his stare at Sherlock hardened as he made him an unspoken promise.

_Whoever that is in there, they will regret it._

John quickly clamored to his feet and slammed the door open startling the group of middle-aged men surrounding a computer screen at a desk and _smiling_ at it.

Before he even had the time to exhale his own breath he found three government-issued batons raised at him and his hand pinning the largest man face-first into the wall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He hollered, the sound muffled by the drywall.

“What is your purpose Sergeant?” John spat, pressing the man’s hand backwards against his spine.

The balding man sputtered before asking, “The hell do you mean?”

“As an officer of the law,” John growled, knowing he was precariously close to spraining the officer’s wrist, “what is your purpose? It’s to protect and serve the people of the United Kingdom, is it not?”

The man crooked his head back a bit so that he could meet John’s furious glare and chuckled, “You’re that bloke always tailing behind the freak, aren’t you? John- John Watson, yeah?”

John bore his teeth as he slammed the man against the wall with a violent thrust, “That’s _Captain_ Watson to you, you piece of shit. Do you actually think it’s _all right_ to get your rocks off by watching the abuse of a _civilian_?”

He spun the man around and glared at him through a furrowed brow, still pinching the Sergeant’s wrist so that he had control over the man’s movements, but the disgusting officer only smiled, “It’s evidence, _Captain_ Watson. We were only doin’ our service to the community by _thoroughly_ examining it.”

“You make me sick,” he snarled, welling the saliva in his mouth before spitting it on the overweight man’s shoes, raising his eyes up to the graying blue ones in challenge.

“ _C-christ.”_

John heard Sherlock’s broken voice mumble over the speakers and he couldn’t stop himself from turning his head and glancing at the screen.

His friend was obviously battered and bruised and tears streamed freely down his face as he tightened his belt around his upper arm. John worried his lip in his teeth, studying Sherlock’s bleeding arm in the reflection of the mirror. That Wilcox scum had done the same to Sherlock as he had done all the other victims: a single line across their wrists and an accompanying one down the forearm. John pieced together his memory and he swore Sherlock’s arm hadn’t been that clean. He would have _known_ then and there that he’d been attacked if it had been so. The answer came with a slight hiss from the speakers and an iron taste in John’s mouth.

“ _An accident,”_ Sherlock mumbled to himself, seemingly dazed, as he dragged a shard from the mirror down his own skin, biting open the flesh on both his arm and his fingers.

The realization smacked John like a bus: Sherlock had been actively hiding it from the beginning. He had made the conscious decision to hide it from John, whom he knew would have helped him, the moment it happened and it made his heart sink into his shoes.

_Why didn’t you trust me?_

His friend subsequently vomited before curling in on himself while _apologizing_ to the air and it made him ache in sympathy.

_Sherlock really thought he deserved that. Jesus, I am SO sorry._

The broken man stood on wobbly legs and suddenly hunched over, his hand hovering over his temples while his voice cracked with emotion, _“D-delete! Delete! For G-god’s sakes!”_

John felt his hand drop from the sergeant’s and curl around his mouth. _Of COURSE Sherlock would have tried to delete it. Who wouldn’t? That must have TERRIFIED him that he couldn’t._

A chuckle from behind him ripped him from his reveries and John spun back around. The man lifted his lip in a sneer gesturing to the screen with a tilt of his head.

“The freak talks about you in it,” he said sourly, obviously reveling in the sadistic pleasure of watching Sherlock’s pain on screen.

“What do you mean?” John growled. He shouldn’t care. He really should just knock the idiot into oblivion and go help Sherlock, but _damn him_ he was curious.

“O’Donnell,” the sergeant boomed, nodding at a rather young looking Constable with red hair, “spin it back for our _Captain_ here.”

“Yes sir,” the young man piped, dropping his baton back onto his hip and tapping at the computer, pulling the toggle back towards the beginning of the assault.

John cringed as he heard Sherlock’s blood-curdling scream as the man entered into him again and remembered that this was right about the time in the film that Sherlock had _begged_ them to shut it off. Anticipation settled in John’s gut as he heard his own name uttered by the man being attacked on the floor.

“ _John_!”

John felt his body concave as his nerves almost made him sick up onto the other two officers in the room. The doctor had noticed that instead of actually calling for help, Sherlock would first grab John’s attention since he was normally there to aid the daring detective when the occasion called for it.

_He called for you to help. Damn you for not being there! You should have been there, you idiot!_

_“John? Who’s John? Your faggot boyfriend?”_ The monster called out over him, taunting the poor detective while he thrust animalistically into him.

_“You’re so damn tight! I can imagine what a good fuck your Johnny gets out of you!”_

John’s nails bit into his palms as he heard his friend whimper through the speakers knowing that although Sherlock would never want a relationship like that, that must have hurt him terribly. John _knew_ he was Sherlock’s best- if not only- true friend and the fact that this despicable excuse for a human being exploited that to cause him more pain made John wish he had just snapped the man’s bloody neck when he had the chance.

The man cajoled his friend endlessly as he assaulted him and it made John sick, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. With every passing second, hatred grew in his warm heart and he wanted nothing more than to right-out _murder_ the other man in the video. He would also _love_ to do the same to the four men sharing the room with him, but he decided he would let Sherlock’s brother handle that. He did have _some_ use after all.

 _“You’ve got a good memory, yeah? Seems like a posh little prat like you would. Remember this every time your little Johnny fucks you, yeah? Every time he thrusts his cock in your pretty little arse,”_ he punctuated his words with another animalistic thrust causing Sherlock to cry out and John to cringe, _“remember me! Remember how_ _good_ _I was!”_

 _That_ was too much.

“Enough!” John hollered, slamming the laptop screen down and jerking the USB from its port, shoving it in his pocket.

“That’s evidence!” The red-headed constable called out, earning him a glare from the doctor.

“Then I’ll just return it to the presiding officer, how about that?” John growled, shoving his fists into his pockets before glaring at the Sergeant.

“I suggest you remove yourself, _sergeant,_ before I make life a _hell_ of a lot harder for you.”

The older man puffed out his chest and glared down at the doctor, “Is that a threat against a Metropolitan Police Officer?”

John smiled mirthlessly and narrowed his eyes, “I don’t make threats.”

The man’s eyes widened as he realized the short doctor’s bite was quite probably far worse than his bark and he leaned back against the wall. John flicked his eye around quickly catching the names.

_Sergeant Jennings. Constable O’Donnell. Constable Hawkins. Sergeant Gregory._

_Let’s see who’s going to regret they ever crossed Sherlock Holmes,_ John thought sourly turning on his heel.

John stepped cautiously out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him, twisting his body around in circles as he searched in vain for the detective.

_God, he was so distraught- where could he have gone?_

John suddenly patted his lower back and felt nothing but cloth and muscle, sending his thoughts into very unnerving territory.

_Oh fuck._

He tore off down the hallway and out of the building as fast as his feet could carry him.

He _had_ to find Sherlock before his best friend did something _terribly_ stupid and he could only pray he was lucky enough to get there in time.

 

***

 

Sherlock slammed into the flat like a bat out of hell and paced about gripping his hair painfully tight.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t think- he couldn’t speak- he couldn’t breathe. Everything was moving in double time and yet everything seemed to last forever.

_God wouldn’t everything just SHUT UP?_

He ran into the kitchen and tore the cabinet open gripping a ceramic plate and studied it, running a finger over a chip in the edge.

 _Damaged,_ he thought sadly, turning it over in his hand. _Just like me._

Suddenly, the plate was a hundred pieces on the ground and Sherlock watched as every little shard bounced away from its comrades and into the crooks and crannies of the floor.

_That was oddly… soothing._

He grabbed another dish and chucked it at the ground, something inside of his distraught mind reveling in the way it disintegrated at his feet. Another plate met its demise at the hands of the detective until he eyed his scientific equipment on the island.

Elegant fingers wrapped around the Erlenmeyer flask filled with some solution of salt water dyed pink for some reason he couldn’t possibly remember right then and he swirled it about, watching a few air bubbles dance in the liquid.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach and he didn’t even try and reign in the sob that escaped his lips.

_Without cases, you won’t be needing this anymore._

He raised the flask in his hand and hurled it towards the ground, watching through blurred eyes as the liquid sprayed on the cabinets and the glass chimed with its expiration.

 _Mycroft always said you were a drama queen,_ he thought sourly, plucking a graduated cylinder from its home on the corner and tossing it across the kitchen and into the opposing wall. The tempered glass sprayed shards all over the tiled floor and the tinkling of its death made Sherlock sob even harder.

_They all know. They all laughed. What’s the point then? Who are you kidding? You’re worth NOTHING to them._

Sherlock paced a divot into the floor, wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered irately, shaking his head. “You’re being ridiculous; stop feeling. Stop feeling!”

Sherlock jerked as he stopped in his tracks.

There was one sure-fire way to stop feeling and it was sitting in John’s nightstand.

Just one taste of lead and that would be all that it’d take.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as he steadied himself and stood still.

John would be furious, but after everything was said and done- Sherlock wouldn’t have to care.

He opened his eyes and slowly, deliberately marched up the few steps to John’s room like a gladiator onto the colosseum floor.

 

***

 

Mycroft Holmes stepped out of his car and tapped his umbrella against the damp concrete out of boredom as he ambled up the steps of 221 Baker Street. He’d just returned from France after preventing yet _another_ World War and decided to blow off some steam by paying his little brother a visit, but something didn’t feel _right_.

He looked up and down the street and then back at his watch resting in his pocket before furrowing his brow. He wasn’t late for anything. He wasn’t expected to be anywhere for the next three hours so why did he feel this overwhelming feeling of _wrongness?_

He sighed as he slipped his key from his pocket and pressed it into the handle before he heard the frantic stomping of someone running either away from something or to it. He lifted his head and to his surprise caught a glimpse of a terribly disheveled looking John Watson running headlong for him.

“John, what a pleasure-” he began before he was nearly knocked out of the way by the doctor who was frantically turning the key in the lock.

“Out of my way, Mycroft!” He barked, twisting the key in its lock while Mycroft looked on in shock.

“What is the matter?” He asked carefully as John swung the door in and ran towards the stairs without shutting it behind him.

The doctor didn’t even pause as he bounded up the stairs and hollered back, “It’s Sherlock!”

Mycroft needed no further explanation and tossed his umbrella to the side of the foyer, kicking the door shut before hopping up the steps after his littler brother’s companion.

_What have you gotten yourself into now, brother dear?_

John slammed into the flat and looked around, terror settling in his gut. There was glass _everywhere_. His boots crunched on the broken material and Sherlock’s brother leapt into the room just behind him, his cobbled shoes crunching on the shattered glass as well.

“Dear God,” the politician mumbled to himself before grabbing John’s shoulder, “John, you _must_ tell me everything!”

“I’m a little busy at the moment!” John protested, jumping around the sitting area of the flat, searching for blood or signs of a struggle or anything really.

It was just then he heard a terrible sob from Sherlock’s room and he stepped over the glass, resting his palm on the handle as he steeled himself for the sight he was about to witness.

_Just be calm. You can’t help him if you’re panicking, too._

He twisted the handle and swung the door open, stepping into the room just to hear the familiar blast of his trusty Sig discharging.


	7. Desperation's Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal thoughts and mild violence.

_Just fucking DO it._

Sherlock’s hands trembled with the unfamiliar weight of the firearm in his grip. He leaned against the wall in his own room, knocking the flat of the barrel against his temple as he debated internally.

_Wait for John. He’ll help. He always helps. That’s what he does._

_They’ll have shown him the video. He won’t want to help you afterwards. He’ll see that you really did want it. You love the thrill of the chase- the raging fire of danger- you must enjoy the sensation of being burned, do you not?_

_You didn’t want it! Anyone could have seen that! This wasn’t your fault. John said that and so did Lestrade. They’re both terrible liars so it must be true._

_And what of the work? You’ll never be able to consult again; not with everyone knowing. “Genius Detective Raped and Nearly Murdered”. Can’t you just see the headlines now?_

_It doesn’t matter. It’ll all work out._

_It never works out. Not for you._

Sherlock pinched his eyes tight and crossed his arms on his knees, unwittingly aiming the weapon at his own hip. He could barely breathe and his head was swimming. He was most assuredly not of a sound state of mind and he couldn’t care less. _Why should he?_

He struggled slightly as he sat up straight, his knees still tucked against his torso and his heart heavy in his chest.

He just wanted everything to _stop;_ to just be _quiet_. Surely that wasn’t such a terrible thing to ask for?

He sighed shakily as he lifted his hand and examined the gun in his grip.

 _Sig Sauer_ _P226R Model. Serial number has been filed off. Been cleaned within the last week. John certainly likes to keep his things in good condition. Of course he does. He takes care of things. That’s what John does._

He wept heavily into the crook of his arm as he pointed the gun away from him and at the opposing wall.

_John would want to take care of him. That’s what he does. Every day, whether he realizes it or not, John tries to take care of him. He couldn’t do that to John Watson. He couldn’t do THIS to John Watson._

His finger rested on the trigger, but the weapon was no longer aimed at his brilliant brain and he decided that John would be happy with his decision.

Suddenly the door slammed open and Sherlock’s hands clenched as he startled, sending a bullet screaming towards the doorway.

He yelped as he folded in on himself staring in horror as he watched the doctor he loved (he could say that now- if only to himself for it was irrefutably true) fall to the ground behind his bed and out of his sight.

_No._

Sherlock’s heart pattered in his chest and his mouth ran dry with fear.

_NO. That couldn’t have possibly happened._

Ice settled in the pit of his stomach as his heart rate began to skyrocket.

_Oh my God, I did NOT just kill John Watson. Please tell me I did NOT kill him._

“J-John?” He stammered with a quivering jaw, scrubbing his face with his coat sleeve as he held his breath and waited for a reply.

A sandy head popped up over his bed and turned to examine a new hole in the wooden door, “Christ, Sherlock!” He hollered, rubbing at the back of his neck at the near miss, “Watch where you’re aiming that thing! You’re gonna take somebody’s eye out!”

Sherlock almost laughed out of relief, but the sound came out more like a sob and he tucked his head back into his arms.

_Thank God._

There was a second nervous padding of soles against the floor and Sherlock lifted his head to catch a glimpse of his brother jerking into the room, pale and doe-eyed and he sighed internally.

_Never mind._

John stepped gingerly around the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Sherlock, keeping his voice soft and caring, “Sherlock, give me the gun.”

Sherlock hiccupped and shook his head, wrapping his arms around his chest and tucking the weapon against his ribs.

Mycroft’s all-too-measured gait crept on the wooden floor and Sherlock was flabbergasted to see his older brother slip down to the floor next to John and clasp his hands in his lap, bright blue eyes watching Sherlock’s every move, “Little brother, give John the gun.”

“ _No!”_ Sherlock suddenly yelled, startling everyone in the room as he curled in tighter on himself and jerked his hands back to his head, aiming the barrel at the ceiling. “I have lost control of _everything_ ; I can at least control _this! This_ is going to be _MY_ choice! _”_

John’s heart plummeted to the floor as he released a shaky breath, “Sherlock, it is always going to be your choice, but this isn’t going to solve anything. It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” He immediately regretted his words and lowered his head, kicking himself internally.

“ _Temporary?”_ Sherlock seethed, glaring at the doctor venomously. “ _Is_ this _temporary?_ Does this sensation just _evaporate_ at some point? If so, John, I would _love_ to know when! Please do enlighten me as to when I can stop feeling like this!”

“That’s not what I meant,” John pleaded softly, his resolve disintegrating with Sherlock’s mania.

Sherlock scoffed, “Please educate me then, John. When does this sensation _disappear_? When will I be able to look into a mirror without seeing his face? When can I begin to sleep without hearing his voice? When will my skin cease formicating with the impression of his? I just want it all to _end!”_

“Sherlock, please!” Mycroft interjected softly, pursing his thin lips. “I’m not entirely aware of what has transpired here, but I assure you, we can _fix_ it.”

Sherlock laughed something dark and foul, the apples of his cheeks pinching and releasing rebel saline from his eyes, “You would _love_ that, wouldn’t you, Mycroft? Just _fix_ me! Section me and throw me into some padded room where I’d no longer be a nuisance. That would solve all the world’s troubles so _please-_ be my guest! It’s not as if _I_ could stop you!”

Sherlock knocked the back of his head against the wall and chuckled humorlessly, shrugging, “They all know, John. They all watched it and you know what’s better?” He narrowed his eyes and smiled darkly, “They were _entertained_. That’s all I’ve ever been good for, John: _amusement_.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” John protested, inching his way closer to the detective. “Please, stop shutting us out.”

Mycroft leaned in, his brows parenthesizing his dampening baby blue eyes, and held his long fingers out, “Sherlock, don’t do this. I am _begging_ you; stop this nonsense immediately.”

Sherlock lifted his face from his arms and narrowed his eyes at the politician. Those words had _never_ been uttered by that mouth and they sounded unnatural and foreign.

His brother opened his palm and gestured at him gently, “Give me the gun, Sherlock. Whatever happened, it doesn’t matter- just tell me and I will take care of it.”

“Why are you even _here_ , Mycroft?” Sherlock spat, flicking the barrel towards his brother unconsciously. “You don’t care! You _never_ have! That’s where I acquired that trait- you know. ‘Caring is not an advantage’- isn’t that right? Well, guess what, _brother dear_?” He sneered as pinched his eyes closed and tapped the mouth of the weapon against his forehead, “You were right. I can’t- I can’t _shut_ it off. I’ve _tried_. I’ve spent _countless hours_ trying to forget; trying to _delete_ these Godforsaken _sentiments,_ but they’re like a cancer; growing for the sake of growth. Every time I can _finally_ eradicate one nightmare, the others come back tenfold and utterly tear my mind apart!” He lunged forward, choking back the nervous bile creeping up his throat and shook his head. He swallowed audibly before his cracked voice spoke again, “Just go away. Both of you. I just want _silence_. I need to be alone.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it,” John said sternly, sitting on his knees and pursing his brow. _God_ , this sight tore him apart inside. This man, whom he cared for more than life itself, was so terribly _broken_ and he had done nothing to prevent it. Sherlock choked on a weak sob and John wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth. _Don’t do this Sherlock,_ he’d say. _You can’t leave me like this because I love you_ , he’d plead _._ But he couldn’t- not like this. Sherlock wouldn’t believe him and would conversely believe John was using his emotions against him and that simply wouldn’t do. So no matter how much he longed to say it- to say _anything_ that would put the gun back in his hands and away from his flatmate’s skull- he couldn’t and he floundered. “Sherlock, let Mycroft and I help you. You don’t need to be fixed or sectioned or anything like that. Let us help you ease your pain. _Please._ ”

“What is the _point_?” Sherlock hollered, waving the gun in the air before resting it on his knee. With every statement his breathing became more and more panicked until his voice was barely a frantic whisper, “They all _know_. What am I going to do? I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. I can’t _think_. I hear him _all the time,_ John.” While gesturing to his head, the detective aimed the barrel straight at his temple and John’s heart stopped momentarily. “He’s in my head and I can’t get him out! He’s every stranger’s face- every breath of wind- every whisper against my skin! What am I supposed to do with that? I can no longer consult with the Yard. I can’t leave the flat without strangers on the street knowing what happened- I don’t know what- Christ, _John!”_ His face crumpled and his fingers loosened their grip on the weapon, the gun slipping and rattling on the ground between his feet as he hugged himself and tucked his face into his arms. His voice was wracked with emotion and it cracked on the last word.

“What am I going to _do_?”

John carefully slipped his hand over the firearm, sliding it towards him and tucking it in his waistband before pulling himself closer to the detective on his knees. Sherlock looked so _small_ and _fragile_ and _vulnerable_ curled up like that and it broke John’s heart. He slid onto the wall next to the detective and wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulders, pulling him gently towards him.

With a loud sob, Sherlock conceded and rested his head against John’s chest, allowing the steady beating of his golden heart to mollify him minutely.

“Shhh, Sherlock,” John hummed, pressing his lips into the quivering inky mess on Sherlock’s head. “I’ve got you. You’re all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” John’s arms wrapped around the trembling man and grounded him for a moment; allowing him to expel his hysterical emotions into the indistinct pale blue-striped jumper that smelled of laundry detergent, adrenaline and _John_.

Mycroft seemed to rest uneasily across from Sherlock chewing on his cheek nervously. He had known his brother struggled with depression, but he had never been audience to such an outburst before. There was obviously so _much_ that he was missing and he did not like being out of the loop one bit.

“John, what’s happened that I’ve not been privy to?”

John raked a hand through Sherlock’s curls gently and licked his bottom lip sadly, “Mycroft, now’s not the-”

“Just show him,” Sherlock interrupted quietly, hiccupping into John’s chest. “I know you have the drive in your pocket- you weren’t carrying it earlier.”

“Do you really want-?” John tried before Sherlock chuckled sadly and fisted his jumper with his shaking hand.

“Everyone else has seen it. Why not the most powerful man in England?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly, tilting his head to try and catch his eye, “I don’t need to see anything. _Quelqu'un vous blessé?_ ”

Sherlock seemed to crumple at the foreign language and bared his teeth in a sob, clutching against the doctor as if he were a life-preserver. He silently tipped his head in what could barely be considered a confession and his older brother bristled, jerking his harsh glare towards the doctor.

“Whom?”

John didn’t need to understand the French to know what he had asked Sherlock so he shook his head, “He’s already in custody. Sherlock caught him a day or two ago.”

“He’s still _breathing_?” Mycroft pressed darkly, narrowing his eyes at the doctor as if he had committed some foul sin against him personally.

“That wasn’t _my_ fault,” John protested, glaring back. “If it were up to me, he’d have enjoyed a long and painful end at my hand.”

Mycroft sniffed out his dissention to John’s forced mercy and grumbled back at the detective, _“Je vais prendre soin de cela.”_

His older brother pressed forward and carded a long, freckled hand through Sherlock’s curls, his expression of sheer determination and John shivered wondering what would become of the monster that attacked his friend.

 _“Je t'adore, cher frère,”_ he mumbled quietly, blue eyes darting over his younger brother’s face. _“Soyez forts._ ”

The detective lifted his gaze minutely at the declaration of affection and furrowed his brow as he watched his brother rise gracefully to his feet and turn on his heel, headed from the room.

John’s voice startled the young detective as he addressed his brother, “Mycroft, I’d check into some Met officers if I were you: Sergeants Jennings and Gregory and Constables O’Donnell and Hawkins. In my opinion, they are some rather… _unsavory_ characters.”

Mycroft shot him a dark glare that assured John that Mycroft’s power was about to crush the men he’d seen violating Sherlock vicariously and it made his heart smile wryly with victory.

The older Holmes quietly padded through the hallway and over the shattered glass littering the floor, but John could swear he heard the entire foundation of London quake at his every move. It was both impressive and terrifying.

“I couldn’t do it,” Sherlock suddenly mumbled between tears after the street door shut downstairs, pulling his legs in front of him so that he could rest against John more comfortably.

“What?” John cocked his head down to better hear him.

Sherlock sucked in a heavy breath, wiping at his face like an adolescent, “I couldn’t do it, John. I knew you’d be angry and I couldn’t d-do it.”

John needed no explanation as to what “ _it”_ was and he gripped the detective close to his chest, “Good. You were right: I’d have been livid.”

Sherlock chuckled weakly and nuzzled his head against his friend’s chest, reveling in the contact he was so deprived of, “I’m sorry.”

He could feel John shake his head and press his lips to Sherlock’s crown gently, “No, Sherlock. You’ve nothing to apologize for. Just relax, I’ve got you now.”

“Why do you care so much?” he dared to ask after a while of silence; consciously diverting his eyes to his knees so that John couldn’t see his expression from above. To his surprise, the doctor clutched him tighter and he could feel the warmth inside his chest grow.

“Because you’re the most important person in my life, Sherlock,” John admitted quietly, resting his cheek on the unruly hair. “It breaks my heart to see you so hurt.”

“I’ve never had that,” Sherlock confessed with barely a whisper of air.

“Never had what?” John asked calmly, furrowing his brow as the detective curled in tighter towards him.

“A friend.”

His answer came so softly, so brutally honestly, that it sent butterflies into John’s gut and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Well you do now, Sherlock Holmes,” John stated confidently, his hand raking through the dark locks and pressing them flat so that he could press another light kiss to his crown. The weight of what _might_ have happened burned at the small of John’s back and he shook his head. He would _never_ let that transpire. He’d stand in front of a bullet before he ever let one touch Sherlock Holmes- no matter _who_ pulled the trigger.

John would be his trusted blogger for as long as he could manage and if he had any say in it, he decided he would _never_ let this happen again. He made the solemn vow into Sherlock’s curls, his heart burning with affection and the instinct to _protect._

 

“You most certainly do now.”

 

***

 

“You know, I actually never liked that pattern,” John said cordially as he swept up the shards of ceramic and glass into the pan and tossed it in the dust bin. “My Gran gave them to me when I went to Uni and I guess I just kept them since. Guess this gives me a good excuse to get some new ones!”

Sherlock scowled, sitting at the table as he watched the doctor bend and maneuver around the broken material like a seasoned veteran, “I don’t know why I did that. Besides being atrocious, the dishware has never _actually_ mistreated me.”

John laughed sweetly and caught Sherlock’s eye as he leaned against the countertop, “I did the same thing when I got back from Afghanistan.” He smiled and waved his arms about dramatically, “Tossed every teacup I had against the wall and threw a bloody _chair_ out of the damn window! It’s a wonder I didn’t kill someone.” He smirked, “Landlady wasn’t _quite_ as understanding as Mrs. Hudson and I got an hour lecture on how I needed to control my temper.” John took a moment to look at the despondent detective and he leaned forward, placing his hand over Sherlock’s, causing him to look up. John’s navy eyes creased in a genuine smile as the cat eyes flickered about his face.

“It gets better,” John promised, patting his friend’s hand. “It really does.”

“Okay,” the detective mumbled, not breaking eye contact with the doctor for what felt like an eternity. There was some sentiment, some _emotion_ in the doctor’s eyes that he wasn’t familiar with and couldn’t place at the moment. He’d never seen it pointed at him and it confused him terribly.

“Okay,” John smiled, patting his hand and turning around to finish sweeping up the sprinkling of glass dust. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question caught the detective off guard and he sputtered, furrowing his brow, “I’m- I beg your pardon?”

John smirked as he stood up and walked over to the dust bin one final time before resting the dust pan on the cluttered kitchen island and shrugged, “Your favorite color? I know so much about you- and yet almost nothing at all.”

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself and shook his head, “That’s just- such a mundane question. Why not ask me my favorite serial murderer or torture method?”

John laughed heartily and the sound soothed Sherlock’s every frayed nerve, “I don’t know if I really want to know your favorite method of torture if it’s all the same to you! And besides,” he smiled and gestured at Sherlock with a tip of his head, “it made you smile.”

The detective opened his mouth to protest and shut it a few times, finding he had nothing to counter John’s observation. He furrowed his brow as he stared at the floor and John rolled his eyes, patting his hand as headed into the sitting area and clicked on the telly. He nestled himself on the couch and flipped on some ungodly crap telly about- _is this really a programme about people buying houses? Sherlock’s right: the human population is a bunch of idiots._

He smiled to himself and flicked through the channels until he found an old rerun of _Jonathan Creek_ and let it sit. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stand the show’s predictable plotline and would start to add his own commentary about “ _Well it was obviously the shop-keeper! Look at the way he folds his trousers!” “Oh come on! It’s like these idiots are BLIND! Can’t they see that they’re talking to the murderer? He’s got mud on the back of his collar! Idiots!”_

Suddenly, he felt weight on his lap and he looked down to find the detective settling in beside him, his head on the pillow resting on John’s thighs. Sherlock had never been one for personal space and John felt like this new found desire for contact and affection was probably due to his self-consciousness about his current affliction, but he wasn’t about to deny his flatmate the attention he deserved.

A calloused hand began to run through Sherlock’s curls and the detective closed his eyes, memorizing the sensation. If he couldn’t completely eradicate the memories of his assailant’s fingerprints on his skin, perhaps he could replace the files in his mind with new ones- pleasant ones. Sherlock decided that at one point in his life, John had owned a cat or a small dog based on the frequency and perpetuity of his petting: it was a practiced skill and a nervous habit that John had likely developed as he bonded with his pet during his parent’s divorce, but Sherlock certainly wasn’t complaining. He could feel the tension slip from his shoulder blades and seep into the couch leaving him feeling lighter than he had felt all day and it was a lovely sensation.

“Blue,” he murmured into the air, just barely louder than the quiet telly in front of them.

“Sorry- what?” John’s hand halted in its ministrations and he leaned down over him, apparently thinking he’d actually said something important.

“Blue,” Sherlock repeated softly, tucking his hand underneath his cheek and feeling the whisper of his own breath caress the skin. “If I had to choose a color that seemed superior to the rest, I’d choose blue.”

He felt the heat of John’s happy sigh against the back of his neck and his hand continued to press the dark curls away from his face, “Okay, what kind? Like the blue of the sky or like the blue of the Union Jack?”

Sherlock cocked a brow, “Color is important to you, is it?”

He could feel John chuckle and shrug a shoulder, “It tells a lot about a person apparently. Harry used to make me take all these weird personality quizzes when we were kids. _You_ might be able to tell me where I’ve been by the dirt on my sleeve, but _I_ can tell you what your spirit animal is. Isn’t that _exciting?”_

“ _Spare_ me,” Sherlock grumbled causing the doctor to laugh heartily, the force of which caused his gut to tap against the back of Sherlock’s head making him smile and quietly laugh as well. He nuzzled his cheek against the cushion and thought about it.

He never really gave thought to _trivial_ little things like that, but he supposed he could take a moment to humor John. He’d have loved to say _“Oh, John- the color of your eyes when you smile”_ but that would be so out of character for him, John would most likely have him sectioned for finally losing his fragile mind.

So he thought about it. He had never realized there were so many bloody shades of blue. It just seemed like such a dull color, and it was found so infrequently in nature that it was almost not worth mentioning.

“I suppose,” he started, and there was sharp inhalation from behind him as if the doctor had begun to nod off where he sat. Sherlock allowed himself a small grin at the notion and repeated himself, “I suppose the color of blue when you open your eyes underwater and can see the sun refracting above you.”

There was a soft hum behind him and then a sleepy up-tone of understanding, “That sounds nice.”

“Would you prefer to transition to your bed?” Sherlock offered quietly, regretting the idea of having to move, but knowing that the poor doctor had had a terribly arduous day- what with the threatening of a police officer in the Yard and him begging Sherlock to hand over the gun when he had found himself at his wit’s end.

The doctor shifted underneath him and there was another sharp inhalation as if the doctor was trying to force himself awake, “No! No, no, I’m all right. I’m awake.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as there was a soft snore that echoed above him and he curled his legs up towards him. If John was going to be stubborn, he wasn’t going to fight him. John was quite the peculiar character after all.

“I’ll stay with you,” John mumbled, half-asleep and Sherlock cocked a brow at his admission until he added one more word. “ _Always.”_

The detective blinked and he felt the corner of his lip pull up slightly as he happily closed his mind and focused on the soothing sound of John’s breathing.

John was certainly an enigma and Sherlock had- of course- always liked puzzles.

 

***

 

_He was underwater._

Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the familiar sensation of moving liquid on his skin and through his blurred vision he could see the damage.

There was debris _everywhere_. He looked down and saw the markers of a public access pool and looked up through the surface at the ceiling; as far as he could tell it was the inside of a gymnasium or a school. He didn’t feel the burn of his lungs begging oxygen from the water so he inhaled to chlorine-treated liquid as he stayed completely submerged.

 _This isn’t how this went_ , his mind supplied as he placed the particular pool in question and jerked himself to the side as some large piece of ceiling crashed into the water and careened past him towards the bottom.

 _The bomb never went off,_ he argued with himself, feeling the weightlessness of floating steal sensation away from his limbs as they chilled with the temperature.

Suddenly he could feel his heart stop in his chest.

 _John_. If this was the pool, then John should have surely been there with him. Where was he?

He forced his feet to kick beneath him and his arms to tread through the water towards the surface as his heart rate began to skyrocket. _Perhaps, since this isn’t the true portrayal of events, the characters that had been present won’t be the same as well,_ he thought.

He swallowed the air gawkily as he finally broke the surface, staring in horror at the scene surrounding him.

First, he noticed the fire. Every wall and the broken ceiling had become engulfed in hungry flames that chewed away at the beams until they creaked and cracked under the stress of their burdens. Second, were the mirrors. The sinister flames were lapping up the wood and drywall, reflecting on every surface by a multitude of broken mirrors, each one giving a horrid representation of the terror of the bomb’s destruction.

“John!” He called frantically, treading water as he turned his head from side to side searching for his companion. There was only silence so he tried again, “John! Answer me!”

 _“John? Who’s John? Your faggot boyfriend?”_ A dark and familiar voice called from the walkabout around the pool.

Sherlock’s head jerked towards the noise and felt himself paddle pathetically away from the familiar face as the man grinned and stepped into the pool. However, it seemed the dream physics were bound to rule as he neither sank nor dampened; his heavy boots steadily maneuvering over the water as if it were a solid force as he walked towards the detective.

“You’re not going to rule my mind!” Sherlock yelled, looking around frantically for a way out, but it only seemed that the closer he swam towards an edge, the farther the edge would stretch away from him so he resorted to steadily distancing himself from messiah-talented man creeping towards him.

As the man finally caught up with the floundering detective, the thin man swallowed a huge breath and sunk beneath the surface again, propelling himself away underneath the chilled surface of the pool. Suddenly, though, he cried out; bubbles of sound popping in the water as a heavy hand gripped at his curls and hauled him through the surface. He could feel the follicles being ripped from their anchors in his scalp and his eyes watered as he peeled them open and glared at the ebony-eyed man holding him up.

“You remember, don’t you?” He snarled, twisting his wrist so that the detective cried out in pain again. “You remember how much you _loved_ it.”

“You’re lying!” Sherlock hollered hoarsely, his hands scratching at the man’s grip to no avail. “John said so!”

“Where’s your Johnny now?” The man sneered darkly; drawing his face so close to Sherlock’s that he could feel the bristle of his cheek against his own. “Left you all alone with me- didn’t he? Just so I could have a little _fun_ with you.”

“No!” Sherlock hollered kicking out with long limbs and knocking the man to his knees successfully. As the man knelt against the surface, Sherlock sunk back into the pool with a splash so that only his head and shoulders remained above the water.

The man smiled, his teeth jagged and cruel, “You want to have control? Control _this_.”

Sherlock hadn’t the moment of notice to suck in a breath as his head was suddenly submerged beneath the surface. His hands rose to beat the man away from him, but he found with horror that the surface has solidified like ice on a lake in winter. His fists pounded away at the barrier, but it neither cracked nor budged. Remembering the way his dream began, Sherlock swallowed at the water only to find that the chlorine burned his lungs and he began to panic.

_Control! Relax! It’s just a dream!_

However, his body refused to cooperate and he inhaled more of the liquid into his lungs until he felt his head swimming with the sensation of oxygen deprivation.

Suddenly he felt the roots of his curls ripped up through the surface again and the water spurted from his lungs and dribbled down his soaked body. The man smiled as he stood to his full height and twisted his wrist again, “You won’t ever forget me, mate. I can promise you that.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he felt the man lift him and then thrust him away and into the hard edge of the pool. His head knocked against the solid surface and everything in his vision was suddenly engulfed in darkness.

 

***

 

John stretched minutely as his consciousness slowly returned to him and he groaned, rubbing gingerly at the crick in his neck. The telly continued in the distance, almost silently, but it gave everything the room a ghostly hue.

 _Christ, whose idea was it to sleep like this? Certainly, I’d have had_ _better sense._

Just then, John looked down and found out exactly why he’d fallen asleep in such a fashion. Somehow throughout the evening, he’d slipped down the couch and Sherlock’s shoulder blades rested against his pelvis with the back of his head against John’s belly. One leg curled underneath him while the other stretched out the length of the piece of furniture and the trousers and button-up shirt he had never changed out of were wrinkled beyond belief. John practically rolled his eyes as he imagined his flatmate’s inevitable horror at the condition of his outfit.

John’s lips curled in a smile as he carded a hand through Sherlock’s unruly hair and the detective’s left hand twitched on his chest at the contact. The hand that slipped off of the couch and dangled precariously in the air rolled its fingers as if Sherlock were playing some piano melody in his sleep.

John’s heart warmed at the sight and he sighed, _You’re so beautiful when you sleep._

John cocked a brow as the detective’s breath began to deepen as if he were about to wake, so he continued to card his fingers through the inky hair. Perhaps if his friend woke up with the intrinsic notion that someone cared for him, he’d be able to make it through the day a little easier.

The detective, however, didn’t wake and his inhalations were exhaled through his slightly parted lips until it seemed as if he had too much air to puff out and his jaw dropped to make room for it.

“You all right there, mate?” John asked quietly, his hands slowly losing momentum in their ministrations as his heart began to unsettle.

The detective gently tossed his head to the side, furrowing his brow and exhaling with a deep grunt. John bent forward and noticed the man’s eyelids flittering with the rapid twitching of REM sleep just before his friend tossed his head to the other side, hiding his face from view. John traced his palm on Sherlock’s brow feeling the sweat accumulating on it and he cursed, rubbing the man’s pectoral gently, “Come on, Sherlock. It’s just a dream. You’re all right.”

The consultant’s knee lifted and his socked foot dragged against the material of the couch as his hand fisted weakly and he slightly shook his head, “ _No_.”

There was a light whimper and John cupped the detective’s face from the awkward angle, tracing his thumb on the prominent cheekbone, “I’ve got you, Sherlock. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”

The younger man’s hips dipped into the cushions before his chest slightly jolted away from John and an aborted swallowing sound escaped his lips. The sound continued; a strange spectacle of his Adam’s apple sliding down and jerking up again unnaturally, accompanied by his tongue clicking against his pallet until John realized what was happening: _he couldn’t breathe._

He slipped himself urgently from underneath the man and knelt at his side, rubbing his knuckles over Sherlock’s sternum as the younger man continued to jerk gawkily from the cushion and choke. “Christ, Sherlock! Wake up!”

The dark brow furrowed and a whine caught amidst the gagging noises nearly broke John’s heart. His head pushed back into the couch as if he was trying to extend his esophagus and allow for easier access to the air, but it seemed to no avail. John began to pat his cheek (perhaps a little harder than necessary) and his voice became urgent, “Sherlock, you’ve got to wake up. Come on; come back to me.”

There was one loud aborted swallowing noise just before the detective’s eyes shot open and his head jerked from the couch. He pinched his eyes tight over and over as if trying to erase the sight of his dream, yet his throat continued to battle with him. He gaped like a fish out of water until he caught a glimpse of the doctor at his side and he leaned up, wrapping his arms around him and choking, “ _I can’t- John- I can’t- I- I can’t breathe!”_

“Iknowiknowiknow,” John mumbled, all one quick word as he rubbed on the detective’s back. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Calm down.”

“I can’t- I-” the terrified consultant’s broken speech only worried John more and he hugged him tight to his chest.

“Come on Sherlock, breathe,” he begged pulling back and cupping the man’s puffing cheeks in his hands. “Look me in the eye. See? It’s okay. I’m right here.”

The detective blinked rapidly as he tried to control his inhalation and one of John’s hands retracted from his face and began rubbing on his chest; attempting to coax the organs inside to function correctly. The sensation was foreign and warm and grounding and eventually Sherlock began to gulp at the air, leaning his forehead against John’s; inhaling his friend’s nervous breath.

Satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t going to black out on him, the doctor leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him; infusing his very skin with affection and concern.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” he muttered into Sherlock’s neck. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

The detective nodded his assent and took a few long breaths to illustrate his compliance.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock released his companion and slumped back down on the couch; staring at the ceiling and panting slightly at his exertion.

“Did you know that in the English language… there’s no verb for having a nightmare?” He asked quietly; his voice meek and downcast.

John resituated on his ankles and shook his head as he tried to think of a term, eventually deciding Sherlock was right, “I never thought about it, but I guess we don’t.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, “Other cultures do. The Japanese call it “ _Unasareru”._ In Fiji, having a nightmare is described as “ _kana tevoro”_ or being practically consumed by a demon of sorts. Mexicans say " _subirse el muerto"_ \- roughly translated to being climbed on by the dead. Unnerving isn’t it? That the second most common tongue doesn’t have a term for such a common affliction.”

John sighed as he watched a single drop of emotion slide down Sherlock’s temple and disappear into his hair, “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“They’re _stupid_ ,” Sherlock bit out, laying his arm over his eyes. “Complete wastes of brain power and memory space. Who the fuck came up with the blasted idea?”

John smirked at Sherlock’s foul mouth and shook his head, “No idea.” Then he smiled and tilted his head to the side, “Actually- you know, when I took Latin in school I think I read something about this Greek God named Ph- Pherm- no, that’s not it. Phoebe? Phober? Christ- what _was_ his name?”

“Phobetor?” Sherlock supplied with a cocked brow.

John lit up like a torch, “Yeah! That was it! Phobetor: he’s the bloke you’re after.”

They were both quiet for a moment before Sherlock finally broke the silence.

“Fuck Phobetor.”

John’s face crinkled in a huge smile and he laughed, nodding his head, “Fuck him, indeed.”

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s calming chest and rubbed gently between the pectorals, sighing as he thought about the remainder of time.

He had hoped that perhaps he could just take Sherlock’s pain away from him, but it seemed that fate was not that kind. Instead, he had to settle for being the rock Sherlock could cling to when the seas became stormy and knocked the poor detective about.

He sincerely hoped that was enough.


	8. A Four-Letter Word

“This is ridiculous, John,” Sherlock scowled as he wrapped his arms around his torso tightly against the chill of the November air.

John smiled and pressed gently against the back of his companion’s elbow, leading him towards Regent’s Park, “No, it’s not.” He looked up at Sherlock’s cocked brow and nodded forward, “We’re just taking a walk.”

Sherlock scoffed, but did nothing to remove John’s hand, “No, you looked this up online. You think I need to get out and re-acclimatize myself to the world or I’ll succumb to my melancholy and try and off myself.”

John visibly stiffened and Sherlock looked down as the pressure that originally touched on his elbow suddenly became a gentle grip. John’s stern expression continued to face forward and Sherlock could practically feel his companion’s worry radiate from his skin, “That’s not why we’ve come out. I- I don’t think you’re going to hurt yourself. You’re too smart for that.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. He’d struggled with depression most of his adult life and if he were to be honest with himself, the concept of suicide had never truly been far away from his mind. He’d never given in to the thought, though, but he _had_ at one point in his later stages of addiction found himself debating over an intentional overdose. Either way, he’d only expressed his internal battles to one person: Big Ben, a rather jolly older fellow that had taken him underneath his wing in the crack dens of his youth.

After he overdosed for the first time on his nineteenth birthday, he’d explained his despondency to his friend and Big Ben had subsequently knocked some sense into him with a closed fist and shook him until his eyes had rattled about in his empty skull.

“Don’t you ever do that again you little twat!” he had said, landing another blow against Sherlock’s jaw- enough that he’d not been able to eat solid food for an entire week. “You know what it’d do to me if you offed yourself, you little arse?”

Sherlock rubbed at his jaw unconsciously at the memory and looked back down at his companion. John wasn’t trying to _guilt_ him from falling into that chasm of depression; he was trying to prove to Sherlock that he was _capable_ enough to not go down that road himself. It was a novel concept and it took him by surprise. He’d never given thought that he should continue to fight not for the comfort of those around him, but solely for _himself_ and the idea that someone thought he was worth such a responsibility warmed his heart.

“Anyways,” John stated, a little more curtly than previously, “just because you find something on the internet doesn’t inherently mean it’s wrong. I’ve- well…” John seemed to flush a bit and his grip on Sherlock’s arm tightened, “I’ve been researching it- a bit. I mean, nothing extensive or conclusive and I’m not sure I have any idea what I’m talking about, but I figured anything would help. I just wanted you to get out of the flat for a bit and- yes- I guess reacquaint yourself with London.” John shrugged and looked away from his friend, “It’s familiar. It’s steady. It’s something you can hold onto. I just… thought it would do you some good.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor, noticing his clenched jaw and his pursed lips until he understood John’s reasoning: John was _frightened_. John had lived through his family crumbling, his sister falling into alcoholism, war, and yet he had never faltered. He had _known_ what to do in those situations; he had known how to _fix_ them.

_Read Harry stories with animated expression so as to cover up the noise of their parents’ arguing downstairs._

_Hold Harry’s hair back as she vomited and slip her aversion pills so as to perhaps prevent another occurrence from happening._

_Stitch up wounds and keep his calm as bullets careened past him and bombs exploded left and right._

John had lived through those times because he had the training and the practice to help those around him. But in this, his best friend’s rape and depression, Sherlock realized John didn’t _know_ what to do and it _terrified_ him, yet he was _trying_ for Sherlock. That was more effort than Sherlock could ever remember someone putting forth on his behalf and it gave him a heady sensation of affection.

Sherlock’s arm slipped out of John’s grip until he could clutch at John’s hand itself and the doctor jerked his head up as Sherlock smiled sweetly.

“Thank you, John.”

John flushed and pursed his lips side to side before looking forward again and giving Sherlock’s hand a light squeeze, “Yeah, alright.”

Sherlock released his hand with a smile and shoved his fists back into his greatcoat pockets. Perhaps going on a walk wasn’t _that_ tedious after all.

“So, John,” he started nonchalantly looking over at his friend, “did I ever tell you about the time I ensured a man’s detention in Hong Kong due to his sister’s broken tooth?”

John snorted and shook his head with a chuckle, as he had obviously been caught off-guard by the absurd question, “No, I think you’ve done a good job of keeping that to yourself.”

Sherlock then broke into a story of such strange happenstance and hilarity that John was practically in tears by the time they had finally approached the park and were following the walkway near the thinnest part of the pond.

“I can’t believe you just stuck your hand in there,” John remarked, wiping at his eyes with a huge smile on his face.

“It was all in the name of science, John,” Sherlock replied, pursing his lips in an honest grin as he watched the doctor. He appreciated the doctor in so many more ways than he could count, more ways than there were atoms in the ocean and more ways than there were boring constellations in the night sky.

“Thank you, John,” he said again after a while of companionable silence as the two men circled around the water, eying as the yellow and red leaves fell in the clutch of the Autumn wind.

John cocked his head, smile still in place, “For what?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and finally opened his mouth to tell John the truth, “John, you are-”

“John Watson, you are in trouble!”

Both the doctor and the detective jerked their heads forward at the shrill voice and Sherlock could have sworn his companion looked pale enough to faint.

“Mary!” John called back, with injected enthusiasm that Sherlock had never heard in his voice before. The rather petite blonde woman bounded the last few steps towards them and wrapped her arms around John, humming as she gripped him tightly to her bosom.

“I’ve been worried sick about you!” She said brightly, planting a kiss on John’s lips, something to which Sherlock felt something inside his chest sink- a rather _unfamiliar_ sensation. “You haven’t answered my texts in _days_ ; I thought someone might have stolen you away.”

Then she turned and practically had to look towards the sky to catch Sherlock’s face and she smiled, “Well perhaps I wasn’t mistaken. You must be Sherlock!”

The detective opened his mouth to confirm her allegations before he suddenly felt no air left in his system and his entire body shaking with sensory overload. Mary had wrapped him in a tight hug and Sherlock had to force himself not to jerk away and perhaps upset her because this woman was obviously important to John and offending her just wouldn’t do.

His head swam with the pungency of her perfume and although he couldn’t breathe from the breach of his personal space, he forced a tight smile upon his lips as she pulled away.

“Not a hugger,” she commented cordially, oblivious of John’s expression of horror considering he remembered the last time he had touched the detective without his permission. “That’s all right! I’m Mary Morstan, pleasure to meet you.”

She held out her hand and Sherlock debated within himself before he extended his back.

_You have to show John that you’re not broken. She’s half your size- she won’t hurt you._

“Sherlock Holmes,” he stated blandly, catching John’s flabbergasted expression in the corner of his eye.

Mary smiled and turned back to John with a mock-serious face, “So fess up! What’s been going on?”

John visibly floundered and Sherlock cut in professionally, “He’s been with me.” Mary’s eyes jumped to him and he lifted his chin, “We’ve been on a case with the Yard and I required his attendance irrefutably and entirely. My sincerest apologies.”

Mary didn’t seem miffed in the slightest and only smiled at John, “Well you could have told me that! You know I love your stories about the ‘Great Sherlock Holmes’!”

John visibly flushed as the detective cocked a brow at him and smirked.

“No matter,” Mary said lightly, wrapping John in her arms again and pressing her full lips against his causing Sherlock to look away from some feeling in his gut like he’d eaten something that had gone off. She pulled away from him and smiled up at the strong doctor, “Jennifer’s waiting for me. I came with her and her son and I just happened to see you so I thought I’d make sure you were all right since I hadn’t heard from you. But, I’ve gotta run! Love you!”

Sherlock’s heart stopped in his chest.

_Love you? Was John as serious in this relationship as that? That means he’ll leave soon. Christ you have to get yourself together before he does or you’ll be utterly ruined._

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, John did not reciprocate the term. He merely nodded with a smile as the woman waved and flittered away to regroup with a rather portly young woman with her toddler son running around her feet. They seemed to chat for a moment before the three of them began to walk further down the path, finally leaving Sherlock and John to themselves.

John puffed out his cheeks as he turned to Sherlock, “Look, Sherlock- I’m-”

“She’s rather… friendly,” Sherlock interjected with raised brows, watching their forms disappear in the distance.

John chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah I suppose she is. She’s a lovely woman.”

“I’m sure she is,” Sherlock stated blandly, stepping away and down the path in an opposite direction from John’s lady-friend.

“Sherlock,” John started, grabbing his arm to turn him back around. “Are you all right? I know that probably made your skin crawl.”

Sherlock smiled tightly- a grin that most definitely did not meet his eyes- and nodded, “Completely fine, John. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually going to fall apart every moment you’re not protecting me.”

John visibly bristled and shoved his fists in his pockets, “A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

The detective caught up to the grumbling doctor with a single stride and cleared his throat, “So you seem rather involved.”

John furrowed his brow before looking up to his friend, “How so?”

Sherlock shrugged and lowered his head, “Never mind.”

The pair walked in an awkward silence to the edge of the park before John sighed exasperatedly, “I can’t say it back.”

Sherlock, who a moment ago had been debating on whether he should begin a new experiment on the effect of chlorine on various body parts, jerked his head and furrowed his brow, “I beg your pardon?”

John sighed again and shook his head, “Don’t be an idiot, I know you noticed. I can’t,” he jerked his hand in his pockets and stared at his feet, “I can’t say it back to her.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. Surely John wasn’t asking for relationship advice from _him_.

“I know she really probably does love me,” John continued, his demeanor souring with every word, “but I just can’t say it back because I don’t love her. Not yet, at least. I really want to- I mean she’s a wonderful woman, but I just can’t force myself to tell her a lie about something so important.”

Sherlock decided to try and give John an outlet, if only for John’s sake, “Does that, erm, upset her?”

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, John laughed and shook his head, “Did it seem like she was upset? She says I’m like her father.” John pursed his lips and furrowed his brow like an older man, “Strong, silent, and allergic to emotional contact.” He shrugged and laughed mirthlessly, “Guess she’s right.”

Sherlock practically seethed and had to stop himself from shaking his head.

John wasn’t “allergic to emotional contact”. John was the _embodiment_ of it; the _personification_ of every right feeling in the world. How could she say such an awful and untrue thing?

_“You’re the most important person in my life, Sherlock. It breaks my heart to see you so hurt.”_

John’s voice resonated in Sherlock’s skull and it finally hit him like a bullet to the brain: John didn’t say that he couldn’t love because he was incapable of the sentiment- John said he couldn’t love _her._ But hadn’t John shown _Sherlock_ sentiments very similar to that particular one, especially in the last few weeks? Chasing _Sherlock’s_ nightmares away and holding him after he collapsed from sorrow: weren’t those acts of _love_? Perhaps it was childish for the detective to assume, but wasn’t that the definition of love? To protect and adore and give affection towards those who one may have that inclination towards?

The warmth in his chest was finally snuffed out like a candle in a storm by his own dark thoughts. _Don’t you even think like that. No one could love YOU- damaged, broken, dirty, rude. Especially not someone with so much light in their heart. Don’t chase after daydreams- you’re just gonna string your broken heart up on a target board and watch as reality shreds it to pieces in front of you. Don’t even allow yourself to DREAM about that._

“She’s not,” he finally ventured to say as they traversed the familiar streets of London, finally back to the comfort of Baker Street.

“We’ve been dating for a while, Sherlock,” John protested, biting his lip. “I should be able to say three bloody words to her.”

“Well it is common knowledge, John,” Sherlock replied, keeping his disposition aloof and disconnected from the conversation for fear of exposing his true sentiments. He should distance himself from John. He was most assuredly capable of such a feat, so why did his broken and tremulous heart seem to have such an aversion to it?

John furrowed his brow and looked up at his companion, “What is?”

Sherlock flicked his eyes downward before lifting his chin and lowering his voice, asserting his dominance over himself and the conversation like the detective he remembered being once more.

“You _are_ in fact, a terrible liar.”

 

***

 

John flipped through the telly half-heartedly as he watched the detective out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was _finally_ doing his experiments again. John couldn’t remember the last time he had been so damn happy about the stench of microwaved eyeballs in their flat, but he had half a mind to make a perfume out of it for memory’s sake.

“Have you spoken to your brother lately?” John asked nonchalantly as he finally settled on a news station broadcasting something about the upcoming holiday season.

Sherlock hummed as he manipulated his microscope, “Not recently. Why do you ask?”

John shrugged, knowing the detective wasn’t looking, “Just wondered if he’d told you what he did to Wilcox. Seemed like he was off in a hurry when he left that day.”

“Ah,” Sherlock supplied and John rolled his eyes. Why should John care if the man rotted in jail or was put in front of a firing squad? As long as he was away from Sherlock that was all he really cared about.

“He escaped, by the way.”

John jumped at the words and jerked his head towards his friend, “ _Escaped_? Wilcox? _When?_ What are you- has Mycroft tried to find him?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and continued to gaze into his microscope, “I didn’t say he escaped willingly.”

John rolled that around in his brain for a moment before seeing Sherlock’s miniscule smirk and he finally relaxed, slinking back down into the couch, “I see.”

 _Well_ , John thought, _that’s one less despicable excuse for a human being on this Earth_. Mycroft had scored a point in John’s mind for sure.

John then cleared his throat and switched off the telly, sitting up straight as he steeled himself for the oncoming storm, “So hey, Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

John shifted nervously in his seat, “I was wondering, erm, how have you been sleeping? Have you been having anymore… you know?”

Sherlock visibly stiffened in his stool and sighed.

_Nightmares._

John’s unspoken question. Like Sherlock was a small child who was plagued with thoughts of the boogey man, John was concerned he was still having nightmares. Of course he would be- because Sherlock most assuredly was. In fact, he hadn’t slept since his last bout with nightmares that left him gasping for air and clutching at John like an infant would reach out for their father. It was _pitiful._

But alas, he should tell the truth. He _should_ tell him. Why shouldn’t he?

“Sometimes.”

John chewed his cheek and sighed, “I was thinking… Have you thought about- I don’t know- maybe… talking to someone?”

 _A therapist?_ Sherlock swallowed audibly and cringed at the thought. _John thinks you’re mental. He’s going to have you sectioned._

“I don’t think you’re going insane, if that’s what you’re worried about,” John hurriedly added, holding his hands palm-out. He shrugged, “I just think maybe talking to someone about all of the… erm- logistics and everything you’re- uh- feeling might do you some good. You don’t have to if you don’t want to- it’s completely up to you, but I just thought it might help; especially if you’re still having trouble sleeping.”

“I don’t need a therapist,” Sherlock said hotly, narrowing his eyes at John who immediately put up his hands in surrender.

“I didn’t say you did. It was just a suggestion, Sherlock.”

“Well it was a stupid suggestion,” Sherlock snapped, lowering his gaze and glaring holes into his microscope.

He _wasn’t_ going insane. He didn’t need a _therapist_ like some weak-minded-simpleton who couldn’t handle their emotions. He was a full-grown adult. Besides, he was Sherlock Holmes. He had been through so much worse, why did John think he needed to be coddled like a child? Damn John! _Damn_ him!

Sherlock’s phone rattled against the table top and he swiped it open, murmuring the text aloud unconsciously.

 

From: G. Lestrade

_Three bodies near the old burned down Hospital on Downey Street. One burned beyond recognition and two bullet wounds. Are you coming? -GL_

_18:01_

John hummed as he asked his friend, “Well how do you feel? Are you up for it?”

Contrary to John’s jesting, the detective prickled, “I am not a China doll, John. I’ll let him know I’m on my way.”

John pursed his lips, “Don’t you mean ‘ _we’_?”

Sherlock tapped along on his mobile as he stood and slipped his greatcoat on over his lithe frame, “How often do I misspeak, John? Besides, you have plans. Or you will in approximately ten minutes when your… _girlfriend_ decides to contact you again.”

John jumped to his feet and his cheeks flushed with irritation, “Now you just hold on one minute. I am not letting you go out there by yourself.”

“I do not require a personal guard dog, John,” Sherlock spat, wrapping his scarf a tad too tightly around his coat.

Sherlock was actually surprised at how John reacted to his words. His chest sunk and he exhaled a sharp breath as if Sherlock’s voice had been a physical object that wounded him with an actual blow. John pursed his lips as he straightened his back, extending his short vertebrae in order to show off his entire height and scowled, “Are you serious? You know what? Fine. If you want to be that way, you go right on ahead. I’m just trying to help!”

Sherlock looked down his nose at the doctor and narrowed his eyes. _You can do this without John. You’re eventually going to have to. John won’t be around forever; you’ll lose your novelty and some siren will attract his attentions away from you so do it quick like a plaster. Cut him out so you can learn to do it by yourself again._ “I don’t need you, John.”

The falsest words he had ever uttered had their intended effect and the doctor cowed back; the fight sapped from him, “I- I didn’t say you did.”

Sherlock steeled himself for the resurgence of the argument, but the doctor didn’t seem game and rubbed at his arm like a dejected school boy before Sherlock slammed the door behind him and practically stomped down the seventeen steps.

He _could_ do this by himself. It was true- he didn’t _need_ John Watson. John Watson was a sounding board and a companion, but Sherlock Holmes could do this by himself if he needed to and if John had a semi-serious lady on his mind, Sherlock would have to face that reality eventually.

Sherlock stepped into the cold evening air and hailed a cab with a singular wave of his gloved hand.

 _You can do this yourself,_ he reminded himself. _You don’t need coddling. You don’t need a therapist. You don’t need John. You are in control of your own life._

Meanwhile, John slumped against the couch and rubbed tenderly at his chest.

That had actually _hurt_. Sherlock’s words had felt like a punch to the gut and John couldn’t fathom why. He had of course known the detective was bound to get tired of his tedium, but perhaps he didn’t believe it would be so soon after Sherlock’s attack. He was only trying to _help_ after all. Perhaps he thought he deserved to be needed because he was a doctor and was _supposed_ to be Sherlock’s friend, but perhaps he was mistaken again.

John sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

“What are you doing, Watson?” He asked himself quietly, worrying his lip between his teeth. “You know that no matter what you do, he won’t care for you- why do you even bother?”

Sherlock had been weak and he needed assistance, but perhaps John’s purpose had expired as Sherlock healed and he was no longer of use. That had been the case for most of his life, anyways: he was there when people required his support, but was tossed away as soon as he became superfluous.

True to Sherlock’s word, his phone buzzed in his pocket not even ten minutes after the moody detective had stomped out and John slid it open.

 

From: Mary Morstan

_Hey! Are you free tonight?_

_18:09_

He pursed his lips as he tapped on his screen and jerked his jacket from its post. If he was no longer needed in the confines of Baker Street, he would go somewhere he _was_ requested.

 

To: Mary Morstan

_I’m all yours. –JW_

_18:10_

_***_

“Where’s John?”

Lestrade quirked a brow at the lonely detective as he approached the scene, his bad mood radiating off of him like a solar flare.

“Busy,” Sherlock said curtly, walking past Lestrade and towards the bodies on the ground.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and caught back up with him, “Sorry I had to call you in. I lost some officers recently.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, “Demoted and transferred- and nobody will tell me why! It’s all _classified_ from the higher ups.”

Sherlock smirked. _His brother had some use after all._

Sherlock sauntered up to the body and suddenly felt the eyes of the crime scene team on his back. It didn’t take long for him to figure out what had happened: a drug deal gone south with a rather esteemed drug lord. The man who had been burned alive by an old kerosene lamp had probably betrayed the drug lord’s trust somehow or had defaulted on his payments and was being taught a fatal lesson, but happened to get his hands on a gun (charred marks on the metal of a gun nearby) and shoot the drug lord’s teenage son. Said drug lord shot at the burning man and then committed suicide out of grief for his only child. It was elementary.

He opened his mouth to tell Lestrade just that when he began to hear the scarcely hidden whispers behind him, unsettling his stomach.

_“He’s already back after what happened?”_

_“Poor soul.”_

_“Hasn’t he learned?”_

_“He looks like he’s been hit by a cab!”_

_“I wonder if he has scars.”_

_“He should be thankful anyone wanted to touch him with a personality like that!”_

_“Where’s his boyfriend?”_

_“Probably broke up. People change after that happens to them. He probably stopped giving it out.”_

_“I never understood what he saw in him anyways.”_

“Shut up!” He yelled, standing up and spinning around to face the entire crowd. Every eye landed on him and he fumed, cat eyes bouncing around the simpletons’ faces, “Have you nothing more to do with your pathetic lives than gossip? Have a little respect, you so-called public servants! Shut your mouths and do the entire city a favor! Your collective stupidity is stifling!”

Heads turned away in shame and whispers of his attitude began to fill the air and Sherlock’s heart sank. He wasn’t helping the situation- he was making it _worse_.

“Oi! Shut your traps!” Lestrade called out, standing next to his wilting detective friend and growling at the people around them. “I don’t wanna hear another word about _any_ of it. You hear me? Next person I hear rattlin’ off about things he don’t have any business talking about, I’ll sit your happy little arse in a no-paid suspension for two weeks. Understood?”

There were murmurs of acceptance before the crowds of officers dispersed, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade alone at the bodies. Lestrade turned to his side and lifted his hand to Sherlock’s upper arm, not quite anticipating the flinch away, “You all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, grinding his teeth. He hated them all. Their hateful faces; their hateful mouths; their hateful infantile minds; everything about ALL of them was truly despicable. He needed to get away. He needed air. “You’re not searching for anyone. This man is Harold Markham. He’s a rather affluent drug lord in the city of London. That body is his son. I have no inkling as to who this foul creature is, but this was all done internally.” He sighed irately as he pointed from body to body explaining, “He set him on fire, he shot him, and then he shot him before himself.”

Lestrade whistled low and shook his head, “Well, that makes things easier for- hey! Where are you going?”

“Handle your case, Lestrade,” Sherlock mumbled back, jerking his hands into his coat pockets and huffing white smoke into the November night air.

Lestrade caught up to him and grabbed his arm, swinging him around, but as soon as the irritated detective turned around he lost his footing and collapsed on the ground at the sight.

_No!_

He pinched his eyes tight and rubbed the heels of his palms into them, resting his fingers in his hair as he opened his eyes and saw who he _knew_ was there.

 _Mycroft took that man away,_ the logical part of his brain argued. _You will never see him again so stop imagining him. You really ARE going insane!_

“Sherlock?” Lestrade seemed hesitant to extend the detective a hand and stayed his distance, afraid to startle the detective any further. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock clamored to his feet and backed away, his breathing slowly becoming pants as his mind barraged him with the voices of everyone around him repeating the words of his attacker.

 _“Oh, you want it! You pretty little whore!”_ They all screamed, as he pinched his eyes tight and raised his hands to his ears.

“It’s not real,” he murmured to himself. “Just your imagination running wild.”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and the D.I. was walking towards him, his hand extended towards him, “You’re gonna be all right, mate. Have you been sleeping?”

“I don’t need your help!” Sherlock hollered, pinching his eyes tight as a new wave of exhaustion rolled over him.

“Sherlock!”

Before the detective knew it, he was running. To where? He had no idea. But the soles of his shoes pounded against the asphalt and his hot breath puffed in the evening air.

He just needed air. He’d be just fine. He just needed _air._

 

***

 

John swirled his half-sipped glass of wine as the conversation between him and Mary began to lull. Was Sherlock all right? The idiot had stormed out in such a hurry. Christ! Last time John had gone on a date with Mary and left Sherlock alone- no. He couldn’t think like that. Sherlock was right. He didn’t need John and John needed to learn how to back off. It was really that simple.

“John?”

The doctor jerked up his head at the beautiful young woman across from him and she smiled sadly, “What’s on your mind, love?”

John pursed his lips and shook his head, setting his glass down in front of him, “Nothing, Mary. I’m just tired.”

“Shall I send you home?” She asked with a smile, resting her hand on John’s against the white tablecloth. Her hands were soft and delicate, so vastly different from the long, calloused hands John had been clutching for the last week. There was something in his heart that hated the fact he was thinking about it like that, but there was nothing he could do to change his heart’s mind.

“No, I’m fine,” John lied, sipping on his wine again before his mobile chimed in his pocket. John flushed and immediately fished it out, knowing the only two people who would text him at that time of night. “I’m sorry, Mary- just give me a mo.”

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Is Sherlock with you? -GL_

_20:43_

John’s heart sank into his shoes as he typed back frantically.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_No, has something happened? Where did you last see him? –JW_

_20:43_

 

“John, dear, is everything all right?” Mary prodded quietly, seemed to sense John’s urgency.

John shook his head and jiggled his foot beneath the table as he awaited Greg’s response, “No. Sherlock’s missing.”

Mary sighed and rested her cheek against her hand, “Seems like that flatmate of yours gets into his fair share of trouble; doesn’t he?”

John furrowed his brow irately at her just as Greg responded.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_I think he’s having a danger night. We need to find him. Should I put out an APB? -GL_

_20:46_

“Fuck,” John breathed, scooting his chair back and typing back a quick response.

 

To: Greg Lestrade

_Let’s see if we can find him first. I’ll check some of his haunts and call you. –JW_

_20:46_

“John?”

“Mary, I am so sorry, I have to go,” John mumbled, slipping out his billfold and slipping what he knew would cover the tab and tip onto the table.

“John,” she groaned, rubbing her temples.

“I know, God, I am so sorry, but look- this is important,” John stated sternly, pulling on his suit jacket and leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Mary’s temple.

If Mary had said anything, John most assuredly didn’t hear it. His heart was pounding through his chest and he practically had to force himself not to sprint until he finally made it out of the restaurant. His legs practically vibrated with nervous energy as he took off down the street in hopes that Sherlock was still safe in their terribly enormous city.

 

***

 

Sherlock sighed as he watched the moonlight shimmer on the Thames from the bank underneath the bridge he used to hide out under as a young adult.

_Christ, you’re losing your mind. Why can’t you just get OVER this? It happened two WEEKS ago. Can’t you just MOVE ON?_

He pulled his knees up to his chest and shivered with the chill, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs and resting his cheek against his knees.

He’d always loved water, ever since he was a little boy. He had _loved_ summer when he could go swimming in the lake behind his parents’ house and during the rest of the year he had taken trips to Barafundle Bay just to watch the way the waves crashed on the sand and lapped over each other in their haste to get to the shore. The feeling of being submerged in the cool liquid of the ocean had always washed away his concerns and heartbreak and he had found that nothing calmed his nerves like the sway of the moon’s pull on the tide.

However, whilst he resided in London, staring at the Thames would have to suffice.

He watched sadly as the Thames rippled and reflected the life of the city above it. There had been no rain within the last few days so the sky was bright and even with the surplus light pollution, as he looked up Sherlock could see a myriad of stars and constellations.

 _Big Dipper_ , his mind supplied as he traced the design with his eyes in the night sky. _John would be proud._

Sherlock sighed again and knocked his forehead against his bony knees. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

Poor John.He’d been so cruel to him, so antagonistic and spiteful, and the good doctor didn’t deserve any of it. Perhaps he _would_ be better off with that sweet young woman who hadn’t had a qualm about Sherlock’s standoffishness. John deserved that. He deserved someone who would praise him for the wonderful things he did, not attack him for attempting to rub salve on a wound.

_“He should be thankful anyone wanted to touch him with a personality like that!”_

Sherlock cringed as the woman’s voice echoed in his head and he curled tighter until he could barely breathe.

Perhaps they were all right. It’s not as if he had a line of suitors begging for his hand. Just one who took it without permission.

“ _Good God! I’ve found him!”_

Sherlock quirked a brow at the familiar voice and turned his head to see John frantically tapping the “End Call” button on his mobile and sliding and half-way stumbling down the rocky slope to the bank of the river. He closed his eyes as he steeled himself for the unavoidable lecture just before he was surrounded from behind with nervous warmth as John settled himself behind him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest.

The first time John had tried this method of comfort, Sherlock had panicked and nearly slipped into a pool of shattered mirror, but now, as John’s thrumming heartbeat pounded against Sherlock’s shoulder blade, the detective could only feel security and comfort.

The detective felt a whisper of hair against his neck as John leaned against his shoulder, his face pointed out towards the bridge, “I was so worried something had happened to you, Sherlock.”

The detective felt his shoulders lose their tension and he slightly slumped back against John’s chest, “I’m… sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” John mumbled, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have tried to push that on you. I just- I want to help so desperately and everything I do is _wrong_. I just- I just thought maybe you could get some help from someone who actually knew what they were supposed to be doing.”

John’s breathlessness (presumably from running as his entire body was steaming in the cold air and the nape of his neck was drenched with sweat) began to settle and he gripped Sherlock around the chest tighter as if afraid to let go.

“Last time I got a message like that, I-” John stated, beginning to shiver with the rapid chilling of his sweat, “Christ, Sherlock, I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against John’s shoulder, staring back up at the sky.

“I think,” Sherlock started softly, keeping his eyes in the stars, “you might… have a point.”

John turned his head so that he could see Sherlock’s face and furrowed his brow, “About what?”

The detective shrugged and chewed on his cheek, “I saw him again. I saw him in Lestrade’s face. I heard him in the voices of all the idiotic gossipers at the crime scene. John, I just want him to go away.”

John leaned forward and pressed a nervous kiss to Sherlock’s temple and nodded, resting his cheek on his friend’s shoulder, “Okay. We can call someone tomorrow, but only if you _really_ want to. You’re in complete control of this situation, okay? I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Sherlock nodded with the awkward angle and thinned his lips, “I should be over this by now.”

John stiffened against him and shook his head, “No, I mean- you shouldn’t dwell on it, but I’ve read it’s completely normal to not get over it for a while. It’s not a race.”

“It’s not logical,” he protested weakly, turning his head away from John’s. “It happened two weeks ago, I’ve gotten over near death experiences faster than this.”

John cringed at the thought and nestled his head against his friend’s shoulder, “There’s a difference. This was an attack on your being, not just your body. He attacked who you were as a person, not just the flesh of your skin.”

“I am positive that is a copyrighted sentence,” Sherlock quipped turning his head with a weak smile.

John smiled back at him with the close proximity, “Does it help?”

“Marginally,” Sherlock admitted softly with a light curl of his lips.

John smiled widely and gripped Sherlock’s chest tighter, “Then I’ll have you know I actually came up with that myself.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Oh, well then, you should write one of those rubbish books yourself. You could advertise it on your blog.”

John chuckled and his navy eyes creased, “‘ _Emotional Constipation for Dummies’_. I think that’s a rather promising title.”

Sherlock laughed earnestly and looked back up at the sky sadly, knowing this was just a temporary moment of peace in his world of raging storms. Suddenly the warmth behind him disappeared and the pressure against his back vanished, so he spun around and watched as John lowered himself onto the semi-dry pebbles and dirt mixture to his side and tapped on his chest, “Come here.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but complied and rested his head against where John’s shoulder connected to his chest and allowed the doctor to wrap his arm around his shoulders. Feeling rather bold, Sherlock lifted his hand to where John’s rested on his shoulder and gripped it loosely as if asking for permission, which John readily handed over as he grasped his hand back. Sherlock looked over suddenly as John sighed and closed his eyes, “I’m so bloody glad you’re safe, Sherlock.”

The detective remained silent and turned his head back to the sky where he lifted a hand not holding John’s and pointed at the one constellation he knew.

“The Big Dipper,” he stated quietly with all the pride of a five-year old who thought he was now an astrologist after finding his first group of stars.

John smiled widely and looked down towards the detective in his embrace, “Do you know any more?”

“Honestly John, it takes far too much effort to impress you,” Sherlock pouted, lowering his arm in defeat.

The doctor chuckled and lifted Sherlock’s hand with his own, intermingling fingers and gripping tightly as he flicked his and Sherlock’s pointer fingers into the sky.

He waved around a bit, pulling a few stars into a strange, kinked line and leaned his cheek against Sherlock’s temple, “That’s Cassiopeia.”

“That’s a crooked line, John,” Sherlock protested weakly cocking his brow. “You can’t just connect five stars and claim they look like something.”

“What do you think astrology _is_ , Sherlock?” John teased, rolling his eyes. “Fine. How about this?” He waved their joined hands in a strange “V” pattern with an awkward circle at the end. “Pisces.”

“That looks nothing like any fish _I’ve_ ever seen,” Sherlock scowled, thinning his lips. “I believe you’re doing this wrong.”

John _thunked_ his head back against the ground and sighed, “I give up.”

Sherlock frowned and then felt excitement grow in his bones, “Let me try.”

He lifted their joined hands and drew a line around, connecting a few stars into a familiar geometric shape, “Now _that_ looks like a fish.”

There was a chuckle and Sherlock’s chest warmed. “That was amazing,” John breathed, smiling at his friend’s new found talent. “What else do you see?”

Sherlock grinned and pointed at a strange cluster of little white dots in the sky, drawing imaginary connectors to another set of stars, linking them with jumping arches of stars in between.

“Is that- is that Tower Bridge?” John asked breathlessly, smiling stupidly at his friend.

The detective nodded and shrugged, although internally he was reveling in John’s admiration, “Geometry is just math, John. It’s finding points on a plot and connecting them. A child could do it.”

“Bollocks,” John mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Show me something else.”

Sherlock smiled and looked up at John so see him smiling down at him as well. _God, what he wouldn’t give to kiss him. Just once. Just a peck so he could know what John’s skin tasted like when he was happy._

He blinked the far-fetched thought from his mind and cleared his throat as he pointed up to another set of blinking lights.

Sherlock highlighted made-up shapes to his companion, listening to the soft ripple of the wide river until he could feel his eyes closing on him against his permission and the chill of the air eating away at his bones.

“Let’s go home, Sherlock,” John suggested, squeezing Sherlock’s hand in his own before retracting it and patting on his shoulder.

Sherlock grumbled and griped as he sat up and John chuckled, patting away at his back, “Your coat is _filthy_! You’re gonna have a time getting all this out.”

Sherlock shrugged and forced himself up, extending a hand to his counterpart, “Mrs. Hudson needs something to do. Her favorite programme just had its finale last night.”

“You are horrible,” John chuckled, shaking his head and accepting the hand offered.

Sherlock hauled him up and smiled at him sadly, which John picked up immediately, “Look, we’ll go talk to someone. If you don’t like them, we can try someone else. And I don’t have to be in the room with you at all. It’s gonna be okay, Sherlock. We’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he debated it internally before finally nodding, “Alright.”

John nudged him and forced the detective to look up to see his smile- bright even in the middle of the night, “Just try to be on your best behavior. A therapist won’t do you any good if you make them cry every time you see them.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped dramatically and John chuckled, shaking his head and moving forward to traverse up the steep incline of rocks and dirt, “Be careful, Sherlock. Don’t make me leave you down here with a broken leg while I go call for help.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _As if you would_.

A few slips and several curses later, the two finally made it to the street near the bridge and John slipped out his mobile and dialed a cab service and before long, a vehicle was pulling up to allow them in.

“Baker Street,” John said cordially, settling in next to Sherlock. The exhausted detective’s head began to lean back as the lull of the ride eased consciousness away from his system until his muscles finally went lax and his head rested against the doctor’s shoulder.

John looked away from the window at the contact and smiled at the sight. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for the detective to use him as a pillow, especially after a really exciting case and several days’ worth of sleep deprivation, but there was something different about this time. This was about _trust_ , not exhaustion, and it made his chest warm.

“We’re gonna be okay, Sherlock,” John promised quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the mess of inky curls against him.

“We’re gonna be just fine, you’ll see.”


	9. No Pain, No Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Memories of Past violence and fabrications of new violence.

John leaned against the Humvee in the hot Afghanistan sun and raked a hand through his golden hair, sighing sadly.

He should have _known_ MacGunthy wasn’t going to make it. Even a first year med student would have figured it out, drawn a black triage line and been done with it, but by God if he hadn’t tried his _damnedest_ to staunch the blood flow and try and save the nineteen year old _child_. He couldn’t say he was much more of an adult, fresh out of medical school and just getting his feet (proverbially) wet in the desert sand, but MacGunthy had _just_ enlisted for his nineteenth birthday and now John was going to have to send him home in a box to some poor mother who had just sent him out on his testosterone-infused mission to prove his worth to his country.

John sighed again and dipped his head into his knees. _No_ mother should ever have to outlive her children. That just _wasn’t_ the way life was supposed to work.

Suddenly the ground shook beneath him and he jerked his head up to see what the commotion was about, clamoring to his feet and running to the sound of his screaming men.

John nearly yelped as he rounded the barracks and finally laid eyes on the inferno that had, until five minutes ago, been a fully functioning Apache craft. The men running away from it were covered in flames themselves, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the burning flying machine.

_Watson- Move! What are you doing? MOVE!_

He shook his shock from his mind and ran towards a few men that seemed to have rather superficial injuries. He barked a few orders towards some uninjured soldiers and continued on helping those more unfortunate until he heard the most horrid screaming he could ever remember curdling his blood.

He jerked his head and hollered at one of the men closest to him, “Is- is someone _in there_?”

The man, Broderick was his name, nodded before shaking his head, “Yes sir! Second Lieutenant Griswold, sir!”

“Christ!” John breathed as he watched the flames engulf the machine even further. Griswold was hardly any older than _he_ was and he would be _damned_ before he sent another mother their son back.

“Lieutenant Watson!”

He barely heard the call of his own name as he ran into the flames that licked up his fatigues, finding a small sanctuary in the cockpit that hadn’t been touched by the inferno yet.

Second Lieutenant Griswold had completely ceased his screaming and had succumb to the intoxicating effects of chemical smoke and John made short work of slipping his military-issued blade within the belt and slicing through it, dragging the young man out of the seat and into the flames for a single heartbeat before he could tow him away into safety.

Flames licked up Griswold’s fatigue pants and John patted them down with dirt to suffocate them before hollering at some of his men, “Get him inside! Cut off these clothes and clean his wounds till I get there!”

“Yes sir!”

John picked up the pieces of his shattered reality as an incredibly familiar voice- yet one that had never belonged in Afghanistan- called out to him.

“ _John!”_

The Army doctor swiveled around and furrowed his brow as he looked at the inky hair and the dark Belstaff, “Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing? Get out of here!”

Sherlock seemed to open his mouth to say something, probably some smart-aleck comment drenched with sass, but suddenly pinched his face in pain and cried out, forcing John’s feet to run to his side.

“Sherlock!”

Said detective clutched at his abdomen and bared his teeth, pulling back his hand to expose a crimson sheen that caused John’s heart to stop.

 _No,_ he thought forcefully, watching the detective crumple to the ground, his greatcoat billowing around him. _Sherlock was never here. He is fine and in Baker Street. This is just a dream._

John finally made it to his companion’s side and he ran a hand through his dark locks noticing how Sherlock’s eyes watched him curiously. John almost smirked; of _course_ Sherlock would still be watchful and nosy even as he was dying. Didn’t Peter Pan say something about death being an awfully great adventure?

“You’re gonna be fine, Sherlock,” John said confidently, adding pressure to the wound as the detective cried out in pain. “Just stay with me.”

The ebony curls starkly contrasted the golden white of the Afghanistan sand, but to John’s horror, scarlet began to pool underneath him. _Too much. That’s too much blood. He’ll never make it without a transfusion and we don’t have his bloody type! Christ, what am I going to do?_

Sherlock bucked underneath him and John’s eyes blew wide as crimson painted his lips in a wet cough. “Christ, Sherlock! Nononono, just stay with me; you’re gonna be _just_ fine. I- I- I can fix this!”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth and disappearing into the black curls, “You can’t fix me, John.”

The normally brilliant cat eyes watched John’s ministrations carefully, dulled with exsanguinated veins and the knowledge that anything the good doctor attempted was futile.

“Goodbye, John,” he whispered softly, hardly more than a breath of air and John shook his head fervently, feeling saline drip down his cheeks and stain a clean path in the dust that resided there.

“No! You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to say goodbye!”

Sherlock bucked beneath him again and his brilliantly blue eyes fluttered shut, his head lolling to the side as John heard his last breath escape from his body. It was almost palpable, almost opaque, the little breath that floated into the air and John tried to catch it and force it back into his friend.

“No! Sherlock, you weren’t even supposed to be here, you idiot!” John cried out, finding that his treatments were in vain.

John grabbed the detective and pulled him up onto his lap, sobbing as the precious crimson of the brilliant mind stained his pale fatigues, “Nononono, I don’t want to lose you. Please come back to me. Pleasepleaseplease.”

His jaw trembled as he heard the crunch of heavy boots against the dirt and as he looked up, an Arabic man shrouded in white clothes aimed a barrel at his forehead.

“ _Qd allh yrhm rwhk_ ,” he mumbled, as John looked him in his eyes with a sorrowful expression.

The doctor sniffed away a despondent tear and blinked once just before he heard the crack of a bullet contacting flesh.

 

***

 

John jerked up in his bed and in his haste, slipped off the mattress, knocking his head against the bedside table with a resonating _crack_ in the wood.

He pinched his eyes tight as he clutched at his heaving chest, but the only sight he could produce was blood staining that porcelain skin and it made him gag.

“It was- it was j-just a dream,” he mumbled to himself, pulling his knees to his chest and puffing out his cheeks in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “You’re all right. It wasn’t real.”

Panicked breaths whistled in his nostrils and he shook his head. _Christ,_ how was he going to help Sherlock if he couldn’t control his own bloody mind?

Just then he felt his heart skip a beat.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock was in his bed safe and sound_ , John reminded himself, although he was seemingly unable to prevent himself from climbing awkwardly to his feet and padding down the few steps into the sitting area.

 _You’re bloody mental_ , he chided himself as he silently pressed the door open and caught a glimpse of what lay in the room. The room was bathed in soft light from Sherlock’s bedside lamp and it served, John thought, to dispel the detective’s fear of anyone sneaking up without his notice in the shroud of night.

The doctor padded quietly to the bed where his flatmate lay on his stomach tangled in his duvet and John smiled at the sight as he silently perched on the side of Sherlock’s bed.

The detective had finally advanced to the point that he no longer had to cover himself in a jacket or even a shirt to bed which made John terribly happy: Sherlock was _finally_ getting over the fear of his own vulnerability. His muscular back flexed with each soft inhalation and twisted as the man tossed his head unconsciously to the side facing John. His right hand fisted loosely near his curls and his other rested just in front of his nose as if he had fallen asleep thinking of something very deep. John smiled as he watched the brilliant eyes, not dulled with exsanguination or death, flutter in REM sleep that the detective so desperately needed. The detective pursed his lips in slumber and rubbed his face into the frankly alarming amount of pillows on his bed, murmuring nonsense into the fabric.

“ _Her hand cream… ‘S Spanish… Arrest her…”_

John chuckled quietly and ventured to pet Sherlock’s hair out of his face with a weathered hand, just to remind him that this sleeping beauty was in fact very real and alive and very much _not_ bleeding to death in the desert sand.

Much to his dismay, the detective inhaled softly and his eyes fluttered open slowly, earning John a few languid, confused blinks.

“John? Are you all right?”

The doctor flushed as all this was very creepy business and he really had no right to be in here at all, very much less staring at another full grown man, “I’m- I’m well-”

“Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked sleepily, closing his eyes and nestling back into his own pillow.

John was nearly taken aback at Sherlock’s frankness and then reminded himself- it was _Sherlock_ , “Yeah.”

“What was different?” Sherlock mumbled, obviously still within the clutches of sleep. “You don’t normally need to see me after a dream about it.”

John internally debated telling him the truth just before it popped out of his mouth quietly, “You were there… and I- I couldn’t…”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and then peeled open his eyes, narrowing them at the doctor, “Did you pull the trigger?”

John’s bottom lip trembled as he remembered the images his mind had supplied and shook his head pitifully. Sherlock groaned as he stretched like a cat coming out of a nap and pulled himself up to a sitting position with his legs crossed beneath the blankets that pooled around is hips and blue-green eyes darting around John’s face, “Then you observed me being shot and weren’t able to prevent me from bleeding out.”

John swallowed audibly and nodded, lowering his gaze into the duvet, “I’m sorry. I just- I wanted to make sure you were all right. It’s stupid, really.”

Suddenly there was a hand in his line of vision and John jerked his eyes up to see Sherlock’s round and sympathetic. Sherlock nodded at his extended hand and half-smiled sadly, “Go on then. I assure you; my heart is beating and pumping a most satisfactory amount of blood through my cardiovascular system.”

John worried his lip between his teeth before he lifted a trembling hand and wrapped it around the naked wrist.

_Th-thump._

_Th-thump._

John audibly sighed and shook his head, “I must be losing my mind.”

Sherlock smirked not retracting his hand from John’s grip, “Perhaps we could rent out a flat together in the psych ward.”

John chuckled and raked his hand through his hair, shaking his head to himself, just before he felt Sherlock’s wrist drag against his hand. He looked up and watched the detective gesture to the headboard, “Come here.”

He scooted back in his own bed as if making room and John took the hint, maneuvering so that his back was against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him, “Yes?”

“You need confirmation that you’re useful,” Sherlock stated blandly, resting a pillow in John’s lap and quietly dipping his head into it, “and I need to sleep. It’s mutually beneficial and the only logical solution, obviously.”

“Obviously,” John teased, watching with a tender heart as the detective nestled against his waist and blinked slowly.

“That- the thing you do,” Sherlock said almost- _sh_ _yly_? “It’s rather… pleasant.”

John furrowed his brow questioning himself, _That thing I do?_

Suddenly there was a happy sigh from his lap and he realized he had unconsciously begun to run his fingers through the dark curls. _Oh. THAT thing._

“I’m glad you enjoy it,” he said softly, his chest warming as the detective shut his eyes and rested his hand back in front of his face just as he had previously had it.

Sherlock hummed, “Hmm. I’ve never understood… why people assume curls are for pulling.”

That caught John off guard but then he thought about it. Anytime someone came into contact with his beloved detective, they _did_ yank at his curls, knowing that Sherlock would bend to their will from the pain. That monster that had violated him did it especially, pulling Sherlock’s head up in order to force him to watch his own attack in the mirror. Had no one ever treated the detective with a tender touch?

“Neither have I,” John admitted quietly, feeling the detective’s breathing shallow and slow as he drifted back into oblivion.

Suddenly Sherlock grumbled almost intelligibly and John couldn’t help but smile, “But what you do… It’s… nice.”

John smiled and continued to let the dark strands slide through his fingers and bounce back against Sherlock’s head, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sherlock hummed again and before long, slow breath escaped from his parted lips and filled the room with evidence of his trust in John’s ability to protect him whilst he slept. John’s chest warmed at the thought and he pulled the duvet up to cover Sherlock’s bare chest more thoroughly.

 _By God_ did he love this man.

Then it hit him.

He _loved_ Sherlock Holmes. God, if he wasn’t a glutton for punishment, he’d eat his own hat. Anyways, he’d never be able to love Mary because his heart was already taken. No _wonder_ he was having so many issues coming to terms with her fondness!

All in one motion, John’s heart brightened and saddened. On one hand, he knew he was capable of feeling such intense emotions and that he had the victor of his affections currently fast asleep in his lap, but on the other, he was almost one- _hundred_ percent sure that Sherlock would never return his sentiments and that if he should ever admit them, Sherlock would cast him aside like so many others.

But hadn’t he shown him already? John didn’t act the way he did with Sherlock around _anyone_ , not even _Mary_ , and he was certain Sherlock never acted the way he did around John towards anyone else.

John smiled as he remembered his mind’s exact words: “ _he was almost one-hundred percent sure.”_

 _Almost_ one hundred percent sure.

_Almost._

 

***

 

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and tightened his scarf around his neck as he stared up at the building. There was a light pressure on the small of his back and he looked down to see a very encouraging John smiling back at him.

“The building isn’t going to bite you, Sherlock,” he teased gently, sensing Sherlock’s trepidation.

The detective sighed and lowered his head, “It’s just a pity I should have to subject myself to the scrutinizing eye of someone who thinks they know me when they most assuredly do _not_ in the first place _._ ”

John smiled and pressed Sherlock tenderly into the building, “I’ve done it. Thousands of others have done it, you’ll be _fine._ Just try not to make him cry.”

“I don’t attack everyone I come into contact with, John,” Sherlock bit sourly. “It’s merely a reaction to the impressive stupidity that is the human population.”

“Well, you’re off to a good start then,” John teased, shaking his head. Sherlock sighed as they stepped through the threshold and found himself reading a directory for _Dr. Maury Schinova._

“Room seven-twenty-three,” John stated as he read the words beneath his fingertips. “Suppose there’s no time better than the present.”

“Spare me your joviality, John,” Sherlock scowled, stepping into the lift and immediately pressing the “ _Close Door”_ button to prevent any further boarding before they headed up to the seventh floor.

“You’re gonna be fine, Sherlock,” John reassured him once more, patting his arm kindly and smiling up at him. He shrugged, “And if you _don’t_ like him, we’ll find you someone else. Or we can do something else entirely.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock bit out, his nerves getting the best of him already. Last time he had been forced to speak to a therapist, he had found himself expelled from primary school and institutionalized for an entire week before Mummy came and bailed him out. Apparently telling the therapist about his experiments on the _already_ dead dog he found in the woods was _not_ a good idea. He was six- how was he supposed to have known that?

“I’m assuming you want to go in by yourself, yeah?” John said softly as the light passed the number five… Number six…

Sherlock flushed and looked into the corner of the lift farthest from his companion, “I would rather… if you, erm…”

“Understandable,” John said lightly, rubbing at his arm reassuringly. “I’m not sure I’d want you in my sessions with Ella, either. You might not like me if you knew how mental I actually am.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at the attempted humor and puffed out his cheeks. _Just like John said. You only have to come here once. Spit it out, get it over with, and get back to being YOU. You’ll be just fine. John said so and although he might be an idiot, he’s very seldom wrong._

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed and by the time he opened them again, the lift doors were opening into a very business-like floor lined with white doors against grey halls with golden name cards signifying their owners. The detective looked down suddenly as John gripped his hand and squeezed tight.

“Well come on then,” he said, releasing his friend’s hand and walking down the hall. Sherlock followed behind; very conscious of every noise and crease in the paint until John’s quiet “Ah-ha!” caught his attention.

John clicked the door open and allowed Sherlock inside, following slowly behind him and finding themselves in a rather modern looking receptionist room clad in stark white and splashes of ebony around in circles and lines. The décor set Sherlock’s teeth on edge and he worried the tips of his fingers against each other.

A moderately petite blonde young woman dressed in a rather alarming shade of vibrant crimson jerked her head up and smiled, rising to her feet and extending her hand.

“Melanie Campwater, and you are?”

John stepped up and shook her hand with a smile, “John Watson and this is my friend…”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the detective added reluctantly at John’s gesture, refusing to shake the girl’s hand for some unknown reason. He didn’t like this place. It made his skin crawl and set his nerves on edge.

“Ah!” The girl exclaimed as she typed something in on her computer, “Mr. Holmes! You have an appointment, yes? I’ll go let Doctor Schinova know you’re here. Take a seat if you’d like.”

John did as he was asked and popped a small book open that he had brought as he had anticipated Sherlock’s reluctance to have him join the session and Sherlock remained standing, nervous energy pouring from him.

“Sherlock, relax,” John said off-handedly, flipping a page. “It’s a therapy session, not a sentencing.”

“Says the man who allowed a woman to insinuate he had a gimp leg,” Sherlock barked sourly, pacing a small line back and forth.

“Which is why I don’t see her anymore and why I keep you around,” John added with a slight smile and a flicker of his eyes towards the detective.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and exhaled deeply, finally releasing some of his tension, knowing that John wasn’t worried. If John wasn’t concerned, then he shouldn’t be either. John was confident in his abilities, so he should be, too. It was only logical.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock nearly jumped at the unfamiliar voice and when he jerked around, a rather tall and thin man of Eastern European descent smiled back at him. His grey beard was trimmed around his jaw and his silver hair was slicked back in a fashion that reminded Sherlock, unfortunately, of his grandfather.

“Yes?”

The man gestured through the doorway and tilted his head, “This way if you please.”

Sherlock shot John one last nervous glance before forcing his foot to _just move_ and pass him though the doorway. As he did so, the man shut the door behind him and Sherlock was met with a rather unfamiliar setting.

The entire room looked as if a tornado of white paint had attacked its very core and splashed the color into every nook and cranny. Sherlock was half-concerned that if he stepped another foot into the room, he’d leave a trail of dust or dirt in his path that would offset the entire décor completely. The only color that dared to exist in the room was actually the absence of color that coated a long couch and two opposing chairs in front of it.

Dr. Schinova sat in one and gestured for Sherlock to do the same in the other.

_John wants this to work. He wants to help, let him do that._

The detective carefully did so and crossed his leg over his knee, keeping his greatcoat tightly wrapped around his frame.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Dr. Schinova said gently and with a thick accent that Sherlock was entirely too familiar with. “My name is Doctor Maury Schinova. I hear that you’ve had a rough time as it were lately.”

Sherlock couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on the doctor of psychiatry before him and continued to flit them around picking up what little he could from the modern and empty décor, “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“I’m not going to deal with your nonsense, Sherlock,” the doctor suddenly stated very sternly causing Sherlock to startle and furrow his brow at him.

“I beg your pardon?” He questioned with a flabbergasted expression.

The doctor plucked his glasses from his nose and began to clean them with a handkerchief, “I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes, and I am very aware of your temper and sharp tongue. I just want to establish that I will put up with neither while you are in my presence.”

Sherlock bristled and scowled at the audacious man before him, “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“Am I wrong?” The doctor asked nonchalantly, not meeting Sherlock’s furious glare. “Are the allegations incorrect?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to pop an insult off before he thought against it. It _was_ true he liked to be antagonistic, but he was sure that there could have been a better way to approach it, “I suppose they aren't.”

“Then we are on the same page,” he replied, slipping his thick glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “Tell me what happened. Why did you come to see me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down, “What are you playing at? Everything is in that file in your hands.”

“Yes, but reading can be so tedious,” the man replied, shrugging. “Tell me what happened in your words.”

“I- I’d really,” Sherlock was _floundering_. He _knew_ he was supposed to be able to talk about it- wasn’t that the point of this entire thing? But for some reason, he felt terribly exposed and this man jumping on his throat didn’t improve the situation, “I was assaulted.”

“By whom?”

Sherlock flushed and suddenly felt very cold, resorting to pulling his thick cotton coat around his lithe frame even tighter, “A man by the name of Lucas Wilcox.”

“What did he do to you?”

Sherlock lowered his gaze nervously to the floor and curled in on himself. Was this how it was supposed to go? Surely Ella didn’t make John feel like this- he would fight back immediately. But nightmares about war and nightmares about rape were completely different. Maybe he was _supposed_ to feel like this when he spoke about it, “He…” The detective sighed sadly and puffed the words into his scarf, “He raped me.”

“Incorrect.”

Sherlock jerked his head up and grimaced at the man’s answer, “Excuse me?”

“Men do not get _raped_ ,” he said nonchalantly scribbling something in his blasted notebook.

“Are you seriously insinuating that I made this _up?_ That I _fabricated_ it on a whim?” Sherlock snapped, his face flushing with fury and shame. Who would _dare_ make that up? Who would _dare_ make light of such a situation? The fact that this man was even _pretending to allude_ that Sherlock was one of those people made his skin itch with irritation.

The doctor shook his head and continued to write, “I’m not saying that at all. I am saying that perhaps you do not remember exactly what it was that happened.”

Sherlock stammered with ire, “What- are you- how dare- what do you _mean_?”

The man finally glanced at Sherlock and the detective felt oddly exposed, “You are a reasonably strong and fit young man, I can see no reason that you should not have been able to protect yourself unless you were under the influence in which case you need to come to terms with your actions and accept responsibility.”

Sherlock gaped incredulously and puffed nervously. This man could _not_ be serious. Both John _and_ Lestrade said this was Wilcox’s fault. He had been _raped_ \- surely that meant he was allowed some concession of guilt. He _struggled_ for God’s sakes! John had a bloody thumb drive that had all the evidence of his efforts to fight back!

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock stated jumping to his feet and shaking his head. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“There are many roads to recovery, Sherlock,” the man stated, watching with a disinterested eye as Sherlock stomped to the door. The detective stopped and turned around as he continued, “You seem to have exhausted several already. Previous drug addictions and now even your friend is finding your behavior unbearable to the point he decided you needed therapy. What does that say about your idea of ‘ridiculous’?”

Sherlock shook his head. John didn’t find his behavior “unbearable”. In fact, even at his _worst_ , John seemed to take every insult as a grain of salt, knowing he never really meant any of it. And _John_ didn’t decide Sherlock needed to talk to someone, _Sherlock_ did. John even said that they could try something else if need be. This man was an _idiot_. A complete _moron_!

But perhaps this man _was_ right- in a sense. If he could fix his personality and fix his behavior- perhaps he could convince John to stay. Maybe it would all work out fine- all he had to do was listen to the man talk for an hour and just be _patient._ He had heard that taking responsibility for things tended to allow one to accept them and move on, so _perhaps_ this man had a strange way of utilizing that fact.

Either way he could try- for _John_.

He sullenly paced back to the chair opposite the doctor and slumped down; his entire body language blaring “Closed Off”.

“So care to begin this again now that you’ve got your spat out of the way?”

Sherlock lifted his lip with ire but forced himself to take a deep breath and be patient. He could learn to be patient, “I was raped.”

“No.”

Sherlock scowled and gestured irately at the man, “How can _you_ tell me what did or didn’t happen? You weren’t _there_!”

The man shifted in his seat, “No, but I can tell that when you get frustrated you lash out on others and blame them for your shortcomings. Perhaps this is the same case?”

Sherlock bared his teeth and snarled, “You are _not_ going to tell me that what happened was my interpretation of some idiot’s stupidity that my mind formulated into a horrific rape.”

“Do you have any proof that he actually _did_ touch you without your permission?”

Sherlock scoffed and jerked his forearm from his coat and ripped up the button-up shirt exposing the slowly healing reminders of that evening’s events, “Is this proof enough for your feeble mind?”

The doctor leaned forward and looked at the scars with a bored eye and then flicked his gaze up to Sherlock’s incredulous face, “Those are pretty. Did you do them yourself?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to bite back at him before he jerked his gaze to the scars on his wrist and forearm. Jagged lines went up and down the pale skin, pink bites that reminded him of that night’s events but as he examined them, he realized, he _did_ do that. All of those marks save two were by _his own hand._

“Ah,” the doctor sighed, pressing up his glasses and scribbling something in his little book, “Bad attention is better than no attention, is it not? Too bad you marked up your beautiful skin for such a pitiful purpose.”

 _What?_ Sherlock hadn’t done this on purpose. Well, he _did_ , but not for the sake of getting attention. Well, he supposed _that_ was true as well, but it was more to take attention away from the original scars. His eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

_Dear God, this man is right._

Sherlock sank into his seat, utterly defeated and with all of his fight sapped from him and carefully redid his sleeve, slipping back into his jacket and then into his greatcoat with a shiver.

_Dear God, this was going to be a terribly long hour._

 

***

 

John clapped his book shut just as his watch alerted him that the hour had ended and he stood to his feet and stretched. Perhaps Sherlock would finally have gotten through some of the hardest issues and feel better about himself when this was all over. He hadn’t heard an abundance of yelling or smashing glass, so perhaps Sherlock and Dr. Schinova had hit it off and his detective was going to come out bright, shiny, and new. John could only hope.

However, as it were, fate didn’t happen to be that kind. The door John had patiently waited outside of creaked open and a man who was certainly wearing his companion’s outfit stepped out. John’s heart sank when he saw this man’s expression though. His eyes had dulled and sunk in and his cheeks were hollow and haggard. His pale skin had a sickly pallor to it and as he moved, every motion seemed to tax him dearly, so he only moved what was necessary.

“Sherlock?” John questioned, extending a hand to his friend who seemed to forget that John was even _there_ as he carefully walked past him and out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

John’s heart rate elevated and he spun around on the doctor who quietly stepped out of his office and John jerked in front of his roving eye.

“What the hell did you _do?_ ” John accused, poking the man in the chest with his finger angrily as the doctor just watched the doorway as if he imagined the detective was going to return at any moment. Irately, John grabbed his chin and forced him to look down at the short doctor and he fumed, “ _What did you do?”_

The doctor released himself from John’s grip and dusted off his jacket, not meeting the blogger’s eye, “I didn’t _do_ anything besides help your friend come to terms with his emotions. It’s going to take some getting used to, that’s all.”

John’s nostrils flared furiously as he thought about pressing the issue further but then remembered how distraught the detective looked when he exited the office and he forced himself to run after him.

_God, every time you try and help you keep fucking things up, Watson. What good are you?_

John slammed the office door behind him and just barely made it into the lift before the doors shut behind him. The detective still took no notice that he was there and only watched the ground with shaky eyes while breathing irregular and quivering breaths. John reached out slowly and cupped the detective’s cheek, feeling the detective’s severe trembling and forcing the detective to meet his eyes.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

The detective’s eyes bounced back and forth between his and then he nodded weakly, obviously not trusting himself to speak.

John pursed his brow as he brushed the fringe from his companion’s face and caressed his cheek, “What did that man _say_ to you?”

The detective shook his head fervently and broke John’s grip on him as he exited the lift, headed in a bee-line for the door.

“Sherlock!” John chased after the detective and almost had the cab leave him behind before he slipped in beside the silent detective and leaned against him.

Even in the cab, far away from that psychiatrist, Sherlock’s trembling had yet to cease and even by the time they had made it up into Baker Street, the tall man didn’t even remove his overcoat before curling up on his oversized chair and staring at the empty fireplace.

John raced up the steps and caught a glimpse of his friend and immediately knelt down in front of him, running his hand through the detective’s curls and cupping his cheek, “Sherlock, you’ve got to tell me what happened. What on earth did he say to you?”

The detective seemed to stare at him for what John thought was an eternity before his trembling ceased and he exhaled deeply into the flat. He blinked and slowly slipped to his knees next to John, the doctor watching every move like a hawk. Before long the detective was eye level with the doctor, yet their gazes never seemed to meet. Sherlock took a shaky breath and uttered two words.

“Don’t speak.”

John sucked his lips between his teeth to prevent himself from giving into the temptation and sucked in a huge breath, worrying about what the detective was going to do next. What he wasn’t prepared for was an armful of Sherlock and a mouthful of hair as the detective wrapped his arms around him in a weak hug that caused him to begin trembling again.

John could feel his friend’s chest shivering as if he were about to cry and much to his dismay, the side of his neck gradually became damp and warm. The doctor hugged his friend tightly to him and kissed his temple as the detective spoke with a voice so cracked with emotion that John’s heart began to crumble in his chest.

“Don’t speak,” Sherlock hiccupped against John’s neck, shaking his head. “If you don’t say anything, then this isn’t happening and I don’t have to admit that I can’t do this.”

John’s eyes welled with tears and he gripped the detective closer to him.

_Oh, Sherlock. Christ, Sherlock let me help you. I am so, so sorry. What I wouldn’t give to take away your pain._

Sherlock hiccupped against his neck and John could feel his companion’s entire body tense up against his own and it broke his heart.

Sherlock’s problem, John decided, was not that he didn’t feel, but that like everything else he did in life, he felt his emotions _severely_. In times like this, it may make matters so much worse and break his wonderful heart even more, but John wondered if that meant that when the sun _did_ shine on the detective, if it shined all that much brighter.

Sherlock didn’t want him to speak, so John wouldn’t speak. He would find something else, some other way to express how much he loved the man in his arms. John’s hand snaked up Sherlock’s back and cupped the back of his head, twisting the curls there gently as the detective sobbed weakly into his neck.

He pressed his warm lips to Sherlock’s temple, leaving them there for a long while as the detective began to simmer down in his arms, allowing him to inhale the sweet aroma of Sherlock’s spiced shampoo and the detective’s personal essence.

“I want to get better so badly, John,” Sherlock admitted between less frequent sobs, nestling his head in the crook of John’s neck. “I just… I _can’t_.”

John wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak yet so he just nodded his head and pressed another kiss to the top of the detective’s head. He gently plucked Sherlock’s hand from where it fisted in his jumped and flattened it against his chest, right above his thrumming heart, allowing the detective to feel for himself how much the doctor cared for him and how much he wanted to support him.

Sherlock’s fingertips pressed against the fabric as if he were trying to get closer to the steady beating and he choked on a sob in his throat, “Please pretend this didn’t happen. I don’t want to admit that I can’t control this.”

John nodded silently and leaned his cheek against his friend’s crown, sighing sadly as he hugged the man closer to his chest. Sherlock sucked in a few deep breaths and wiped at his face with his heavy sleeve before he leaned away and averted his face towards the fireplace, “You should, erm, go make tea… Please.”

John smiled sadly at him and gripped his shoulder, giving it one good squeeze before he gracefully rose to his feet and set about the ritual of making Baker Street tea.

“You can- it’s all right to speak now,” Sherlock added quietly after another long while of silence, not raising his eyes from the fireplace.

John only smiled at the detective and brought him tea, setting his own down and stoking a fire before sitting next to the detective on the floor and sipping at it.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

John smiled at the detective and shrugged, sipping at his cup happily.

Sherlock pressed his lips to the cup and watched John’s motions as the doctor watched the fire grow into something beautiful and warming.

Sherlock decided he should at least lay some of his companion’s worries to rest, “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

 _That_ caught John’s attention and navy eyes immediately set on his blue-green ones and he shrugged, “I guess hearing it all spouted back to me at once was a bit… overwhelming.”

“I don’t think you should see him again,” John finally said, grating his teeth. “I don’t like him.”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, “I’m just sick of letting people torment me. Wilcox bruised my body and bullied his way into my mind, and I refuse to give someone the opportunity to tell me I can’t get over him. If this doctor wants to play hardball, I’ll be ready.”

“This isn’t supposed to be about proving something, Sherlock,” John pleaded, setting his cup down and resting his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “This is supposed to be about healing; that shouldn’t require you to play games with _anyone._ ”

“I’m not going to let him bully me, too,” Sherlock protested, narrowing his eyes at the fire. “I couldn’t fight back that night.” He sucked in a deep breath, “I lost control of the situation and I’m not going to let this man take it away from me again. I’m not giving up after one day there. I _can_ do this.”

“I have no doubt that you could destroy the Himalayas by yourself if you really had the urge to do so, Sherlock. Your drive _isn’t_ in question.” John twisted himself so that his entire body was facing the detective and he cupped his friend’s cheek forcing him to look at him. Navy eyes bounced around his face and creased with deep sadness, “Sherlock, I don’t think this is the place for you. We’ll find someone else, okay? You need to be able to feel relieved when you get out of a session, not trembling.”

“Did you?”

John was caught off-guard by the question and shook his head honestly, “N-not normally, no. But when I found something that _did_ work, I did. Just because it wasn’t the first place I looked, didn’t mean that I couldn’t find it somewhere else.”

Sherlock seemed to roll that around in his mind for a moment before leaning into his friend’s chest, speaking so quietly John had to hold his breath to hear him, “I suppose you’re probably right, but let me just prove to myself that some old man in his office can’t break me. I need to see for myself that I can _do_ this.”

John sighed and shook his head, but relinquished the fight, “You can do _whatever_ you want, Sherlock. I’ll be behind you one-hundred percent.”

Sherlock nodded and sat up, wiping at his face, “You need to sleep. You have to be in the surgery tomorrow.”

John felt his stomach sink as he remembered what he had been told his last time at work and he groaned, “I forgot. Apparently I’m supposed to go to some conference in Dublin in a few days.”

Sherlock immediately stiffened, “Oh?”

“Christ,” John moaned, rubbing at his face, “Sarah was supposed to go, but her mother just passed away and the funeral is right in the middle of it, and I’m the only other physician in the clinic that can go.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long time before his weak voice broke the air, “How long will you be gone?”

John shook his head, “I think something like a week, but I don’t think I have to stay the entire time. I’ll come home as soon as you call if you need me, though.”

Sherlock shook his head and tucked his knees against his chest, “I’ll be fine. I don’t need a permanent watchdog, John.” He instantly cringed and turned his head to the side, “I didn’t mean that-”

“I know what you mean,” John said lightly, not offended in the least.

Sherlock sighed and leaned his cheek against his knees. He was eventually going to have to learn how to live without the doctor. Codependence was dangerous and unhealthy and every awful thing he could think of. There was _no_ way he was going to subject himself to that willingly, so this would give him some good practice if nothing else. He could do this. He could manage therapy and manage his own life without the doctor and he would be completely _fine_.

 

He could do that.

 

After all: no pain, no gain.

 

Right?


	10. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Lewd and lascivious behavior by those in fiduciary positions

Sherlock _had_ been doing better.

Sherlock _had_ been sleeping through the night.

Sherlock _had_ been getting back into his experiments and eating on a regular basis.

Sherlock _had_ been doing better, but now he was irrefutably _worse_.

John worried his lip between his teeth as he eyed the being on the couch across the room. Vacant eyes stared sightlessly towards the door and the man curled up on himself hadn’t spoken a word since John had come down from his room that morning.

John had _tried_  not to worry. Sherlock needed to be in control and right now, he was fulfilling his goal of attending regular sessions with Doctor Schinova (five so far), but by God was John worried. He didn’t want to step in and force Sherlock to give up the reigns, but he hadn’t seen his friend so miserable since before the news had come out on the computer in Lestrade’s office.

No, John had to do something. Sherlock was obviously not sound of mind, so John _had_ to do something to save his best friend.

He padded over to the couch and gently grabbed Sherlock’s knees, pulling him around and dropping his legs in front of him so that Sherlock was facing him. John was greeted with a vacant stare so he patted his friend’s face until some of the haziness cleared and Sherlock’s pupils focused in on his own.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice cracked from disuse.

“Sherlock, do I have your attention right now?” John pressed sternly, his grip on Sherlock’s cheek solid and firm.

The detective nodded slowly and John continued, “Then I need you to understand that I am completely serious when I say this: you are _not_ going back to that doctor. Is that clear? I will give you back the reigns and we can do _whatever_ you want, but I don’t want you to see that man again. Can’t you see that he’s hurting you?”

Sherlock shrugged and leaned slightly into John’s palm, “I’m coming to terms with-”

“No!” John practically yelled, causing the detective to recoil away from him like a child from their ranting parent. “Sherlock, you don’t _talk_ like that, don’t you see? I don’t know what this man is telling you, but it’s _not helping_. Please, I am _so_ sorry I brought you to him. Please, please, please let me make up for that mistake by taking you _away_.”

“I need to get better, John,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes not meeting John’s like they hadn’t since Sherlock had been attending “therapy”.

John scowled, “ _Exactly_ , which is why you need to not go back to him. If I have to tie you down to a chair here, so help me, Sherlock I will!”

Sherlock’s gaze was slow and labored as he searched John for any inkling that his threat was idle, but finding none, he decided he was too exhausted to fight, “Okay.”

John straightened himself on his knees and nodded once, “Okay.”

Sherlock sighed as he listened to John’s breathing calm down in his heaving chest. He _had_ been trying. He’d actually been trying _terribly_ hard, but it didn’t seem that he was improving by any stretch of the imagination. How was Sherlock supposed to know how to fix these things he felt inside? He worked with _criminals, murderers, corpses;_ how was _he_ supposed to know how to fix something in an otherwise functioning adult human being? That’s what doctors are _for_ , is it not? So that they can help one when they are in need of it? He was _trying_ to do as the doctor said, even if that meant stifling his own concerns down.

John suddenly gripped his shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. Navy eyes burned with concern and Sherlock could feel the heat of that fire radiate within him as John spoke, “Sherlock, we need to get out of the flat. I need you to remember who you are and what you do. Can you do that for me? Just a little trip into the city so I can remind you of all the things I adore about you. Please?”

Sherlock quirked a brow. _Adore_? That was an odd term for John to use. John didn’t _adore_ him. John was straight. John couldn’t _adore_ him. Either way, he wasn’t in the mood to fight with the good doctor, so he nodded his compliance.

John smiled and Sherlock felt for the first time in days the warmth of the sun against his skin, “Good. Now go get dressed. We’re going out.”

Sherlock cocked his brow slowly as he watched the doctor hop to his feet and pull on his jacket, “Where?”

John smiled and walked back over to him, grabbing his hands, jerking him to his feet, and catching him at the small of his back when his legs couldn’t quite take his full weight. John pressed a quick kiss to his pale brow and smiled, creasing his navy eyes honestly, “Sherlock Holmes, I don’t know where you’ve gone, but by God, I am going to bring you back and make you smile again.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He was right _here_. Why did John continue to assume that his mind went places without his body’s permission? That was fantasy and John should honestly know better than to use it as fodder for an argument. Alas, Sherlock was too tired to argue, so he allowed John to lead him into his room and sit him on his bed as John opened the closet and picked out Sherlock’s favorite suit. _How did John know which suit was his favorite?_

“Because you wear it when you’re happy,” John answered as if he had heard Sherlock’s question.

The detective stilled and opened his eyes wide. _Was he speaking his thoughts out loud again?_

“Yes you are, so stop thinking,” John teased, pulling out a rather dashing Prussian blue shirt and handing the outfit to the detective. After his hands were free of the clothes, John cupped both of the detective’s cheeks in his hands, causing his lips to purse, “Sherlock Holmes, I don’t care what is running through that funny little brain of yours, but you are going to enjoy tonight. I promise you that.”

Sherlock’s head grew fuzzy with the scent of John’s wrists and he shut his eyes, allowing it to wash over him like a refreshing wave. When was the last time John had held him like this? He could hardly remember.

John pulled his head up slightly and pressed a kiss to his brow before straightening up and walking to the door, “Go take a shower and be ready in the half-hour. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen.”

His door clicked quietly behind John and the detective sighed. This going out into public business was tedious, but he supposed if it made John happy, he could suffer for _one_ night. Besides, John was leaving for Berlin, or Dublin, or whatever that city’s name was tomorrow and would leave Sherlock to his own devices for a solid week. Maybe Sherlock could get his senses back before John returned. Wouldn’t that be a lovely “welcome-home” gift?

Sherlock set the clothes aside gently and forced himself to stand, his legs still a tad wobbly beneath him, and slowly walked into the bathroom, setting the shower on a steamy setting and stepping in after relieving himself of his pajamas.

The hot water poured down his sore muscles and dripped down his legs, pooling at his feet and Sherlock slowly allowed himself to smile for what felt like the first time in days. God, he missed the water. He missed the rain. It hadn’t rained in _days_ and Sherlock was having withdrawals. He hadn’t seen the Thames or the ocean or a lake in what seemed like an eternity and he decided then and there, he would make a point to passing one of those that day. He stuck his face in the spray and sighed happily as the water warmed his skin and washed the melancholy down the drain. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps he needed to just _get out_.

John was an idiot, but he was seldom wrong.

Meanwhile, the good doctor paced in the kitchen nervously.

What if Sherlock never came back out of the bathroom and drowned in his sorrows in the tub? Would he be any the wiser? What if this entire plan went tits up and left Sherlock in an even _more_ abysmal state? God! _So_ many things could go wrong!

John bit lightly on his knuckle and sighed, grounding his thoughts in the pain in his hand. Sherlock was going to be just fine. John was going to cheer him up, he’d never see that bloody so-called-doctor again and life would go on. He just had to get through the night.

Suddenly there was a creak and John swiveled around to catch a glimpse of the detective stepping out, clean and polished and absolutely ravishing in the suit combination John had picked out for him. The doctor could barely contain the happiness his heart felt, even if it was only because Sherlock _looked_ like himself again.

“You look as handsome as the day I met you,” he blurted out. Perhaps he _couldn’t_ contain all that joy. He physically clapped a hand over his mouth as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Sherlock, who had just straightened himself to his full height in what felt like _days_ was taken aback by the compliment and flushed in empathy. He allowed himself a small half-smile and met the doctor’s eyes for a split second before looking back towards the ground, “Erm, thank you.”

John’s eyes were wide in shock, but as soon as he saw the detective’s lips twitch in a smile, he felt his fear dissipate.

_THAT’S what you need to do, Watson. He needs to be reminded of how beautiful and brilliant and wonderful he is. Just tell him the truth._

John smiled and stepped close to Sherlock, patting down the creases in his suit lapels and straightening his shoulders, “You look great, now let’s go.”

“Where are you taking me, John?” Sherlock asked quietly as John took his hand and dragged him down the stairs and onto the street still bathed in sunlight from the freakishly warm November day.

John smiled and looked at Sherlock head on, “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock stiffened and his eyes bounced between John’s for a moment before he nodded silently. _Of course he trusted John. John Watson was probably the only being on this Earth that he trusted more than his own capabilities._

John grinned and pulled something black from his pocket. _A cloth,_ Sherlock surmised. John laid it flat in his palms and showed the detective exactly what it was and his heart sank.

_A blindfold._

“I know it seems frightening,” John stated carefully, gesturing for Sherlock to take the cloth from his hands, “but I want you to learn how to not be _afraid_. I want you to learn how to _trust_ in _us_ again.” His navy eyes were solemn and honest as he pleaded with Sherlock, “I promise you, Sherlock, I will _not_ hurt you. Will you trust me?”

Sherlock’s pulse quickened in his arteries and he felt light headed with the proposition, but he ultimately decided that if he could trust _anyone_ to not hurt him, John Watson would be it. He delicately took the blindfold and tied it around his eyes, careful to keep from knotting his curls into the mixture before he jumped slightly at the warmth of lips against his cheek.

“Brilliant,” the invisible man whispered happily as he moved away, presumably to hail a cab.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hand was lifted away from his coat and held in warm calloused ones as he was led into the cab.

“You’re gonna be all right, Sherlock, wait!- just duck- well I _said_ duck, you idiot. I can’t help it if you’re too tall for the bloody cab.”

Sherlock stewed in his brand new headache and heard the whisper of paper as if John were handing the destination to the cabbie to keep Sherlock out of the loop.

_Surely John knows that I have every street in London mapped out in my mind and will be sure of our destination before we actually arrive there? No matter, the intention is… appreciated._

John hummed happily as he settled in next to Sherlock, “What’s your favorite smell?”

Sherlock snorted at the absurd question and smiled, creasing the blindfold on his eyes, “You ask the most _trivial_ things.”

“I’m almost certain that’s _not_ a smell,” John teased, resting his hand on Sherlock’s gently.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his head towards the window.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me!”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped at the doctor’s perceived clairvoyance and John chuckled, “I had a feeling you did, you git. Now come on, spit it out. Haven’t you ever played this game?”

Sherlock pouted at John’s amusement and crossed his arms over his chest.

 _His favorite smell? God what a tedious question._ Surely Sherlock must invest in a book of interesting conversation starters and present it to his flatmate for Christmas for the doctor was _severely_ lacking imagination in that department.

He quietly opened the doors to his mind palace and stepped inside the room containing all of his memories, slipping one book out in particular from the steep shelves. He pulled the cover open, exposing the first page and the scent of an old meadow near his parents’ house that he used to play in as a child. _A good memory? Yes. Favorite? No._ He continued to flip through the pages, reminding himself of certain events with familiar scents that triggered his emotions until he finally settled on one.

 _John_.

He most certainly wasn’t actually going to _admit_ it to the doctor, but Sherlock stood in his mind palace a moment longer just to inhale the sweet aroma of jumpers, gunpowder, and cheap shampoo before flipping it to what he knew was his next favorite sensation and memory.

He opened his eyes and startled before remembering that there was a _reason_ he was seeing all black and he felt John’s hand grip his.

“Have a nice trip to your mind palace?”

Sherlock turned his head from side to side and was _stunned_.

He had _no idea_ where they were. John was _clever_ indeed! How infuriating!

“That’s _cheating_ ,” Sherlock pouted, feeling the cab make a left turn onto God-knew-what Street.

John chuckled and Sherlock could feel him leaning up against the window with his back so that he was facing the detective, “Yes, well it served its purpose. What did you come up with?”

Sherlock half thought about making John sweat it out before his dazzled mind caught up with him and decided that he should reward John for his cleverness.

“I suppose a mixture of salt, laundry detergent, and sandalwood,” Sherlock stated softly feeling the smile on John’s face that he couldn’t see.

“That’s… oddly specific.”

“It’s a memory.”

“Most scents are,” John teased in good-heartedness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and scowled, “Well there you go. That answers your question.”

There was a moment of silence before he heard the doctor shift again, “Why that particular memory?”

Sherlock debated internally and finally resolved to tell the truth with a shrug, “When Mycroft and I were children, my parents had a cottage out on the beach. My mother would string up the laundry on the clotheslines and Mycroft and I would play pirates in the sheets. Or rather, he was the British Royal Navy and I was Blackbeard. It was stupid really, but it is one of my more… fond memories.”

He could hear John’s smile and a warm hand crept onto his own for a moment, “I knew you and Mycroft used to get along.”

Sherlock smiled, “I suppose we did as children. I don’t know, I suppose I just began to resent him when he went off to university and left-” Sherlock stopped with his words on his tongue. _When did he start talking about things like that? The words were just spilling out of his mouth and he had actually started feeling… BETTER… Perhaps John was right._

Sherlock was allowing him in and it felt… _good._

“Sherlock?”

 _Oh._ He _had_ just stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, hadn’t he?

Sherlock smiled bright and wide and flattened his hand, searching on the cab seat for the doctor’s until he found it, “John, you are absolutely brilliant.”

He could practically feel John flush as the doctor brushed it off, “Yeah, well don’t tell everyone. I like keeping some things to myself.”

Suddenly he could feel the cab slow to a stop and John maneuvered in the seat to pull out his billfold and pay the cabbie. Sherlock then felt warmth on his hand as the doctor opened the door and pulled the detective out of it.

 _Smells:_ _Grass, dirt, wind._

_Sounds: children squealing, adults chattering, water moving._

_It was a park of some sort._

Which one, he had absolutely no idea, but he could figure it out if John would start moving.

John rested his hand at Sherlock’s elbow and began to press him forward, silently.

“We’re at a park,” Sherlock stated, hoping to elicit a reaction from the otherwise stoic doctor.

Unfortunately the man was giving him no breaks and remained silent save for the humming of some song from an old movie perhaps.

Sherlock focused on the roll of his feet in the dirt path and the scents of the nature around him as John continued to press them along.

“Regent’s Park,” Sherlock finally blurted out as he recognized the shape of the track they were walking on.

“Very good,” John stated happily. “Where?”

Sherlock listened for the sound of water, but found none. The sound of children had for the most part dissipated and it seemed that John and he were alone. Suddenly he heard something off in the distance.

An acorn or something of a similar size and weight fell through the air and crashed onto a hard surface and that little sound echoed far longer than it should have.

“The Open Air Theatre,” he stated proudly, feeling John stop them and reach carefully around his head.

“Good! I guess you won’t need this anymore,” he replied cheerily as he slipped the black material from around his eyes and smiled at him. “Hello there.”

Sherlock smirked, pursing his brows momentarily, “Hello.”

John grinned and gestured to the theatre, “So tell me what happened.”

Sherlock cocked his brow and John reiterated, “Something happened here last night and I want to know what it was.”

“That’s… _vague_ ,” Sherlock said carefully, looking out over the myriad of seats and stage.

“Right up your alley then,” John smirked, stepping behind the detective and giving him a gentle _push_ towards the facility.

Sherlock looked around curiously and began to piece together details in his mind as he walked down the steps to the center stage.

“There was a play. It’s not uncommon for youth troupes to perform here.”

John smiled and followed him down the steps, “What kind of play?”

Sherlock pursed his lips as his fingertips traced the stage.

_Full-house, rather popular production then. Marks of less than ten different pairs of shoes on the stage- rather small crew. Popular, but miniscule crew? Probably Shakespeare. Is that? A man’s shoes, but the impression isn’t of a man’s foot. A cross dresser. Shakespeare was famous for men playing women, but very seldom did the women play men- that must mean…_

“There was a production of _As You Like It_ last night,” Sherlock stated, dusting his fingers on the stage as he caught a glimpse of John’s smile.

“Care to explain?”

Sherlock set off in a list of deductions explaining his conclusion and even ventured as far as beginning to recite stories about some of the patrons that had attended.

“Brilliant,” John breathed. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

As he finished, Sherlock felt himself stand tall and dazzling and he wasn’t even surprised when he felt an overwhelming warmth against his chest because it felt _wonderful_.

“God, I’ve missed you,” John murmured into his neck softly causing Sherlock to pause for a moment.

Then, he gently gripped the man back and smiled, resting his cheek against the soft, golden hair, “I know. Thank you, John.”

Sherlock didn’t need to prove _anything_ to _anyone_ , and John finally assured him of that. John enjoyed his company when he was himself and that was really all he could ask for. He would go to that terrible excuse for a psychiatrist and tell him off for _good_. John would be proud when he returned and found that Sherlock was healthy and happy to see him. John would be happy and he and Sherlock could put this entire experience _behind_ them.

John pulled back and smiled sweetly, his eyes creasing in joy, “Come on. I’ve got some other things to show you before I leave tomorrow.”

John grabbed his elbow again and dragged Sherlock to who-knew-where, but if it was John, Sherlock would accompany him to the ends of the Earth.

 

***

 

The detective sucked in a deep breath as he steeled himself for his last venture into this blasted building. He was going to tell that “doctor” how full of nonsense he was and wash his hands clean of him for good.

Sherlock forced himself through the door and into the lift with his last bit of willpower and rolled his knuckles nervously.

_John’s going to be so proud of you when he finds out. It’s going to be just fine._

As the lift doors opened, Sherlock stepped down the familiar hall and into the terrifyingly _white_ room and was greeted by the young blonde woman.

“Hello Mr. Holmes! I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Sherlock bounced on his heels as the man opened the door to his office and ushered him in, “Hello again, Sherlock. You look well.”

Sherlock smiled tightly and clasped his hands behind his back, “Yes, and as no result of your ‘therapy’.”

The doctor looked a tad affronted so Sherlock continued as he stepped into the office, “I’ve found something that _actually_ relieves my pain whereas you were causing it to exacerbate. I wanted to stop by and alert you that your methods are horrendous and that I will no longer be requiring your services.”

“What is it this time, Sherlock?” The doctor sighed, slipping his glasses off and cleaning them with a cloth. “More drugs? Sex? These things are only temporary-”

“Love!” Sherlock blurted out, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Love and trust and everything that allows me to not just forget what happened- because it _did_ happen- but move _past_ it. Everything’s clear now- it all makes sense. I just need _him_.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” the doctor sighed, stepping towards the detective until the taller slightly shorter man had to take step after step back in order for him not collide with him. “Don’t you know how toxic such a feeling is?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he found the back of his knees knocking against the chair he’d been occupying once a day for the last week, “W-what are you doing?”

“Sherlock, these euphoric emotions are only temporary. You need to accept responsibility so that you can _truly_ move on with your life,” the doctor pressed, leaning over Sherlock until he unwittingly sat down. Surely, he wasn’t going to have to hit the older man today. God, he was exhausted and just wanted to go home and curl up on John’s lap while he watched some inane telly programme.

“Besides,” the older man hummed, “how can you love someone you can’t touch?”

 _Whoa!_ Sherlock gasped as he felt a hand grip at his shoulder and slide down to his pectoral. This didn’t seem right. No, this was completely past _bit not_ good and was encroaching on _very not good_ territory. He was a licensed physician; he most certainly has a better way of expressing his medical opinion than through tactile communication. But if Sherlock were to be honest with himself that _was_ something he was concerned with. He could assume John and Mary’s relationship wouldn’t survive, but how could he convince John, a very physical creature by nature, to accept _him_ as a partner if he couldn’t let him _touch_ him?

“Your mind is trying to overcompensate for your heart’s ignorance by making you believe that love is a viable sensation, when in reality it very much isn’t.”

“I beg your pardon? One shouldn’t speak about things they don’t understand,” Sherlock barked, finally finding his resolve in the man’s words. John’s affections towards him the past month had most _definitely_ been acts of _love_. Platonic, romantic, what-have-you, they were nonetheless _love._

Suddenly, the detective yelped as he felt his hips gripped by one hand and his manhood cupped in the other overwhelming him with sensations of contact and anxiety.

“Isn’t this what your John would like to do?” The doctor asked snidely as Sherlock writhed underneath his touch and the detective shook his head fervently, pushing the man away with all of his might and knocking him to the ground.

Sherlock jerked to his feet and wrapped his greatcoat around himself as his memories attacked him.

_“Oh, you want it! You pretty little whore!”_

_“You like it, don’t you? You little fuckslut!”_

“Nonononono,” Sherlock murmured to himself, cupping his hands against his ears and shaking his head. “It’s not real. It’s _not real._ ”

“Don’t you think that it’s rather unsurprising that you find yourself in a compromising situation again?” The doctor pried softly, pulling himself up as the detective floundered. “You _chose_ to come here today, just like you _chose_ to follow that man into that room.”

“Stop it!” Sherlock yelled, his gut wrenching in disgust at the man’s words.

“You’ve been in control this entire time, Sherlock and this is what you’ve _chosen_.”

“No! You-You’re lying!” Sherlock felt his knees wobble beneath him so he leaned against the doorframe.

_Get out you idiot. Call John. John said he’d come back if you needed him. Get out! Move! Call Mycroft, call Lestrade, call someone- just get OUT!_

His hand twisted at the handle, but in his panic, he couldn’t force the handle to click open and he faltered, leaning against the door, panting as his heart rate began to skyrocket.

“Doesn’t that feel better to accept your part of responsibility for the event, Sherlock?” The man hummed as he walked towards the detective slowly and deliberately.

“No! That isn’t _true_! _John!_ ” Sherlock hollered, seizing the door handle in a vice-like grip. If he couldn’t open this door, then _dammit_ , he was going to break it down.

His heart skipped a beat as he finally unlatched the door and busted out of the room like a bat out of hell.

He couldn’t remember the run home, nor the run up the stairs, but somehow he found himself shaking in his bed.

_Call John you idiot! Save yourself the trouble and just get it over with. He doesn’t want to be at that ridiculous conference anyways._

Sherlock reached for his phone, but his hands trembled so terribly that he misdialed half a dozen people before he finally tossed his mobile against the wall in frustration.

_“Look me in the eye. See? It’s okay. I’m right here.”_

John’s familiar words echoed in his head and he forced himself to remember the doctor’s warm touch so that he could erase the chill of his almost violation.

“Ch-christ,” Sherlock breathed, shaking his head and pulling his knees to his chest.

“Breathe, breathe, you’re all right, you can do this by yourself. Focus, remember. Remember.” Sherlock chanted the mantra to himself as he pressed at his temples.

_Remember! Remember Mycroft’s fraternal affection. Remember Lestrade’s paternal protection. Remember John’s loving touch. Remember!_

 

***

 

John sighed as he checked his phone for the hundredth time that morning. It had been three _days_ and Sherlock hadn’t texted him, hadn’t called him, hadn’t tried to contact him in _any_ way which was rather uncharacteristic for the detective and terribly unsettling for the doctor. Surely he would have at least been _bored_ without the doctor to entertain him?

He should have been paying attention to the speaker on the stage but _something_ a bit not good irked at his chest. With a quiet groan, he excused himself from the speaker’s lecture earning him a dozen sour glares as he stepped into the hallway and dialed the familiar number.

“ _Hello.”_

“Sherlock!” John hollered, relieved until Sherlock’s voice cut him off.

“ _I’m afraid I’ve a hundred better things to do with my time than run through tedious voicemails, so don’t bother leaving a message at the tone.”_

John’s gut unsettled and he tried again.

“ _Hello. I’m afraid I’ve a hundred better things to do with my time than run through tedious voicemails, so don’t bother leaving a message at the tone.”_

“Fuck,” John breathed, feeling his feet move beneath him without his will. He tried once more.

“ _Hello. I’m afraid I’ve a hundred better things-”_

“Oh Jesus, what have you gotten yourself into now, you idiot?” John asked himself as he broke into an all-out sprint towards his hotel room. He flipped his key out and within three minutes had his entire luggage packed back- the perks of military packing techniques.

He raced down the stairs and was lucky enough to hail a cab on his first try and found himself waiting on a plane back to London that would take off within the half-hour. He jiggled his legs nervously as he tried the number again.

“ _Hello. I’m afraid I’ve a hundred better things-”_

“Sherlock, you’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he murmured, dragging his hand down his face and clenching his fist nervously.

“ _John!”_

The doctor sighed. _God, not now._

“John, are you all right?” Mary asked, obviously out of breath from running through the terminal after him. “You tore out of the hotel like it was on fire!”

The nurse had accompanied him on the trip as she was a part of the clinic as well, but if he was being honest with himself, she was the _last_ person he wanted to speak to right then.

“It’s Sherlock,” John admitted, gesturing at his phone. “Something’s wrong.”

Mary sighed, “There’s always something wrong with Sherlock.”

John scowled and snapped back at her, “You don’t understand, Mary. Sherlock doesn’t just ‘get in trouble’ like ordinary people. When he gets in trouble, his life is normally on the line!”

Mary seemed to understand that point, but countered with her own, “John, you can’t just live your life at his beck and call. You _are_ your own person you know. You should make your own choices.”

John ground his teeth and nodded, “Exactly, and I _choose_ to keep him safe. Look, I don’t really expect you to understand nor do I really care if you do, but right now he _needs_ me.”

Mary sighed sadly and wiped at her face sending a sinking feeling into John’s stomach. _Oh, come on. Not here. Don’t do it here._

The beautiful young woman puffed out her cheeks and straightened her back as if preparing herself for debilitating news and sighed, “John, you are a wonderful man, but you are not mine.”

“Mary, please-”

“No, hear me out,” she commanded sharply, earning the doctor’s silence. “John, not once since we started dating have you ever looked at me the way I’ve seen you look at him.”

She sighed again and clasped the hand not holding his mobile in hers, “John Watson, if you do not take advantage of the wonderful opportunity you’ve been given and continue to squander away your time on people you will never love, you’re going to lose what you have right in front of you. I love you John, but I can see very clearly that your heart does not belong to me and it never has.”

John could feel emotion tightening in his throat, “Oh, Mary.”

Full lips pressed against his brow as the young woman leaned over him and she smiled sadly, a single tear escaping her eye and dragging the eyeliner down with it, “Goodbye, John. Take care of our dear Sherlock, would you?”

John smiled back sadly and watched as the woman he cared for walked away, wiping at her face and he sighed, raking his hand through his hair.

She was right, there was no doubt about that, but John was terrified he’d already been too late to keep the detective out of trouble this time. God, he’d been such an _idiot_ to leave whilst Sherlock was still healing. He kicked himself internally as the boarding call was sounded and he shuffled into the plane with a hundred other men and women going about their daily lives.

He _wasn’t_ too late. He just had to remind himself of that and hope to God that the detective was breathing when he walked into the flat that evening.

Fate could be kind sometimes, right?

 

***

 

“Sherlock!”

John could barely contain his anxiety as he raced up the steps into 221B Baker Street and tossed his luggage on the ground. Immediately he could feel there was something terribly _wrong_.

The doctor shivered and swore that inside the flat was almost _colder_ than outside of it, even though it had finally transpired into December and the season’s first snowfall had just begun to dust the ground. He knew Sherlock thrived in the cold, but even _he_ liked their flat to be of a slightly-warmer-than-freezing temperature.

“Sherlock? Christ, it’s _freezing_ in here!”

The flat was silent as a tomb and John’s heart began to palpitate as he blew hot air into his palms. _Sherlock was probably off on some case he hadn’t heard about yet. He’s probably safe and sound._

But no. John’s gut was telling him something was amiss and his intuition was almost never wrong.

“Sherlock?” He tried again, padding through the sitting area quickly before he decided to try the detective’s room.

At the sight, John’s heart froze in his chest, “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

The detective rewarded him with no response and continued to lie still as a corpse on the bed on his side. One hand rested parallel to the floor in the airspace of his bed and the detective’s lidded eyes stared into nothingness even as John knelt before him. It was strange, John thought, that the detective was in nothing but a housecoat and his pajamas with the temperature being so low. He wasn’t even under the covers! _Wait- were his lips… blue?_

“Sherlock?” John prodded just before reaching out and wrapping his hand around the consultant’s. He immediately recoiled from his friend as he was _burned_ by the arctic chill of his skin. “Oh my God, Sherlock! You’re cold as ice!”

John traced his hand up Sherlock’s arm and then underneath his shirt and was terrified of the results: even at his core, he was _ice cold._

“Sherlock, what have you _done_?” John hollered as he wrapped his hand around the limp wrist and was horrified at the fragile calando of his pulse. _Oh God, Oh God._

John wrapped one arm around the detective’s shoulders and the other around his bent knees, lifting him terrifyingly easily and clutching him to his chest as the detective’s head lolled to the side. _A man this tall should most definitely not be this light_ , John’s anxious mind supplied. _God, when’s the last time he ate?_

“Sherlock, you’re gonna be okay,” he promised, as he hastily carried the limp man into the sitting area, not sure who exactly he was trying to convince. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be all right.”

He gently laid his friend on the floor in front of the fireplace and nervously stoked it, waiting until a hungry fire began to lick up into the chimney to abandon his friend in search for a thermal blanket. Finding one in the linen closet, he jerked it out and ran back to the snow-white detective on the ground, wrapping him tightly in it and rubbing on his chest and neck.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John pleaded, his heart sinking every moment the detective’s skin had goose prickles, yet he refused to shiver. “Aw, Christ.” John pulled the limp form into his lap and positioned Sherlock as close as he could get to the hearth without being burned. Weathered hands slipped beneath Sherlock’s clothes and rubbed at his chilled torso, hoping that perhaps he wasn’t too late.

“You were _fine_ when I left, you idiot!” John chided the unresponsive man, shaking his head. It sincerely unnerved him that the detective wasn’t unconscious, but instead in a sort of dazed state of indifference; staring blankly into the fire without comprehending its existence.

John breathed hot air down the detective’s neck and his grey-blue eyes began slowly blinking as his body temperature slowly came back to a natural level.

“Sherlock, you’re all right, I’ve got you,” John promised urgently into Sherlock’s chilled skin. “Come back to me, _please_.”

John nearly cried out in joy as he felt his friend begin to shiver in his arms and the chattering of teeth filled his ears, “There’s a good man! You’re all right, Sherlock. You’re gonna be okay.”

John smiled as some of the haziness was blinked away from his friend’s stare and a friction-warmed hand cupped the trembling cheek that was beginning to flush with blood flow, “Hey, Sherlock,” he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cool brow, “Do you know who I am?”

Grey-blue eyes flickered on his face and John could have screamed from the rooftops with relief as Sherlock’s chattering jaw finally formed the word, “ _J-J-John_.”

John grinned wide and bright, nodding fervently and hugging the man tightly to his chest, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes- you wonderful, brilliant, mad man!”

Sherlock didn’t seem to appreciate his excitement and instead, mumbled something back, “ _L-l-liar_ …”

John most certainly _hadn’t_ been expecting that and he frowned, shaking his head, “What? No, no I’m not a liar. I’ve never lied to you.”

The consultant’s head leaned against his chest as if searching for warmth as he trembled, “You s-said… Not m-m-my… f-fault…”

John furrowed his brow and kissed the top of Sherlock’s quivering curls, “Sherlock, let’s not do this now. Let me make sure you’re not going to keel over on me first.”

Sherlock bucked with a rather severe tremble and John clutched him to his chest as if he were afraid to drop him, “M-my… choice, J-John.”

John slipped the fringe away from Sherlock’s face and nodded, “It’s always your choice, Sherlock. You won’t ever have that taken away from you again, I promise. Just relax.”

The detective’s breath became fuller and more even and John thanked every deity known to man for his luck as the detective began to groan and come back to animation.

“I miss J-John,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s neck as his eyelids began to flutter shut from exhaustion.

John jostled the detective to keep him away and shook his head, “I’m right here, Sherlock.”

The dark-haired man shook his head weakly and sighed, obviously not entirely back to himself yet, “I m-miss him. Was going to… should know…”

John knocked his nose gently against the detective’s forehead to keep him somewhat lucid, “Were you going to tell him something? Did someone hurt you? What did you need him to know?”

Sherlock shivered and groaned into John’s jumper as he shifted in his lap as he shook his head feebly, “Pr’mise… you won’t t-tell him? He’ll l-leave…”

John furrowed his brow. _Who in the world did Sherlock think he was talking to?_ “Of course; I- I won’t breathe a word. What did you want to tell him?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered down and his hand slowly snaked up onto John’s chest, palming the soft material gently, “I… I _l-love_ him… He can’t know… _My_ John… He’ll go…”

John’s eyes welled and he wiped his face on his shoulder, smiling stupidly and gripping his friend to his chest, “ _Oh, Sherlock_. He loves you, too; so, _so_ much. He finally sees that.”

Sherlock shook his head numbly and frowned, his eyes closed indefinitely, “N-no...”

“And just why not?” John pressed, tipping Sherlock’s chin up forcing him to open his eyes again.

“M-my choices…” Sherlock groaned lightly and shifted against his friend, turning on his side. “My l-love… not r-real…”

Suddenly John felt fire rivaling that of Hell itself within his chest and he scowled, “Did that idiot tell you that? Whatever he said, Sherlock, it was all a _lie_. Don’t believe his bollocks. What all did he say to you?”

John yelped as he felt a hand cup his groin and Sherlock’s soft voice mimicked a familiar accent as he mumbled into the chilled air, “ _This… what John… l-likes?”_

John jerked his companion’s hand away and seethed, “Sherlock, I love you, but I’m afraid you might have to love me back from the other side of the prison cell.”

He pulled a pillow from his chair and gently rested Sherlock’s head on it as he slipped from underneath him and jerked his mobile from his pocket, dialing the familiar number. His desired contact picked up on the second ring.

“ _John? Is something wrong with Sherlock?”_

John fumed, “Yes there is _bloody well_ something wrong with Sherlock! I suggest that if you don’t want your little brother’s flatmate to end up with a _murder_ charge tonight, you collect a Doctor Maury Schinova and send him back to wherever the _hell_ he belongs!”

John heard the shuffling of papers as if Mycroft were moving things about on a desk, _“What’s happened?”_

“I’m afraid he took his doctor-patient privileges too far,” John said honestly, shaking his head. “Sherlock wanted to talk to someone to try and get better, but this man _did_ something to him- I’m not sure what. I found him half-dead on his bed when I got off my plane from Dublin and _Christ, Mycroft!_ ”

There was an eerie silence over the line and John shivered, _“I will take care of everything, John. Is my brother all right?”_

John nodded and felt himself hiccup from the motion he wasn’t aware was suffocating him, “I- I think so. I’m getting his body temperature up, but he’s still out of his wits.”

“ _But he’s_ breathing _?”_ Mycroft pressed with the most emotion John had ever heard inflected in his voice.

John nodded, knowing the man over the line couldn’t see, “Yes. Yes, he’s breathing and talking, but it’s all nonsense. I don’t think he understands it’s me he’s speaking to.”

“ _I will be there presently,”_ the older Holmes promised and John was certain he’d follow through. The line clicked off and John tucked it back into his pocket before he knelt before the fire and eased Sherlock back onto his lap.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said softly, running his hands through the black curls. Sherlock’s cheeks were finally painted with a beautiful tinge of healthy pink and his trembling had for the most part ceased leaving him exhausted and sore. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Although his eyes remained closed, the detective nodded against John’s chest and the doctor smiled, “Good. Do you know who I am?”

“My good shadow,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s jumper, his mind still hazy from exhaustion and lack of sustenance.

John furrowed his brow and shook his head, “No, Sherlock, I’m not. Look- when’s the last time you ate something? You know? _Food_?”

Sherlock nuzzled his head against John’s heart and shrugged, apparently in no mood to discuss the topic any further.

“No you don’t,” John urged, nudging the detective until his brightening eyes fluttered open and flicked up at him, questioning. “What is the last thing you put in your mouth? Oh Christ, just- just hold on.”

John slipped back from underneath him and stepped into the kitchen. He _swore_ he just bought milk so unless the detective had squandered it away on experiments- _ah ha!_

The doctor poured a half a cup of the white liquid and heated in the microwave; stirring it and testing the spoon on his skin before stepping back over to the detective and lifting him gently, “Budge up, Sherlock. I want to get something warm in you.”

Uncharacteristically, the detective slurred and shrunk back into John’s arms, “Don’t want it. M’tired.”

“I know you are,” John replied, patting his friend’s cheek gently until Sherlock opened his eyes begrudgingly. “Please, just do this for me. Or, um, John would want you to. He’d tell you to drink it.”

Sherlock groaned and allowed the doctor to place the glass to his lips with a languid nod, slowly sipping the warm liquid that heated him from the inside out.

“I miss John,” Sherlock hummed, his head lolling back over John’s arm and exposing his Adam’s apple and the vulnerable, pale skin that surrounded it.

“I know you do,” John whispered as he put the half-empty glass on the table next to his chair, his heart heavy with Sherlock’s condition. He nudged Sherlock’s heavy head back up to his chest gently and pressed his lips to his brow. “He- he misses you, too.”

“You’d like him,” Sherlock droned sleepily, like a child falling asleep in a car seat. “Everyone does… Even My does… Stars in my sky…”

“My what?” John replied curiously before he thought about it. _Did Sherlock actually call his older brother My?_

If his eyes hadn’t been closed John thought he probably would have rolled them, “You’re… an idiot.”

“Well at least you still have a sense of humor,” John grinned.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and frowned, “My _head_ …”

The doctor ran his fingers through the black curls and pressed gently on his temples as he hummed, “Is that better?”

Instead of nodding, the detective twitched his lip and sighed, his voice sounding more and more juvenile as he lost his lucidity, “John does that, too… He’s better…”

John allowed himself to chuckle, “Oh is he now?”

Sherlock hummed and leaned into John’s touch and it was only moments before his lips pursed in sleep against the soft cotton of John’s jumper.

John sighed and nestled his nose in Sherlock’s hair. While there never seemed to be a dull day with the detective, he was a little thinned out with worry. Sherlock had been _so hurt_ the last month, and he just wanted to make it all _stop_. He heard the whisper of a key in the door downstairs and a rather rushed set of measured steps up the landing.

“Where is my brother?” Mycroft asked authoritatively as he stepped into the room just before his light blue eyes landed on John.

“We’re over here,” John murmured, turning his head slightly so that he could catch a glimpse of the politician before he stepped over towards the fireplace.

“Does he need a hospital?” Mycroft asked, kneeling down and running his long fingers over the messy fringe.

John shook his head, “I think once he sleeps it off, he’ll be fine.”

“Why weren’t you here?” Mycroft pressed, furrowing his brow at the doctor who narrowed his eyes right back.

“I had a conference and he was _fine_ when I left,” John bit back sourly, unconsciously clutching the man in his arms tighter as if he were afraid Mycroft would spirit him away. “I thought he was doing all right or else I wouldn’t have gone!”

“Well he obviously wasn’t _fine,_ now was he, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft snapped quietly, as his little brother cringed in John’s arms. Sherlock’s brow pursed as he shivered and murmured nonsense in his sleep.

“Look, I’m _sorry_ ,” John groaned, running a hand over the inky curls spilling over the pale skin. “I came back as _soon_ as I thought something was off.”

Mycroft only stared at the doctor harshly and crinkled his nose, “Shame it took that long.”

“And where were _you_?” John pressed irately, losing his temper. “Why didn’t _you_ come check on him?”

Mycroft lifted a brow and sneered, “I was rather occupied at the time with our _… acquaintance._ ”

John pursed his lips and for a moment there was a tense understanding between the two men and the barbs were retracted.

“He’s going to be fine,” John mumbled, pressing his lips into Sherlock’s hair under Mycroft’s wary eye. “I’ll fix this. I won’t let him slip again.”

The gentle sign of affection was something the older Holmes had never seen paid to his brother and it made him suspicious. After a moment, Mycroft sighed, shaking his head, “I’m not sure that’s entirely up to you, Doctor.”

“John,” he replied with a guarded smile. “You can call me John.”

“John,” Mycroft corrected himself politely, leaning back, “I appreciate your efforts, but I am under the impression that my brother might be too-”

“No!” John almost yelled, jerking the man in his arms and causing him to whimper lightly. “He’s not. He’s stronger than you think. He- he can do it. He’ll get better.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger, “John, don’t you think-”

“If I think he starts to slip again, I will let you know,” John interrupted quickly before he lost his resolve. “But Mycroft, before I left he was _fine_ and before he started seeing that _monster_ he was just… brilliant. He was sleeping through the night and happy and I- I don’t want to lose that.” John looked down at the sleeping man and creased his eyes, “I know I can help, please let me do that.”

Mycroft watched the doctor’s every move suspiciously. This man that had infiltrated his little brother’s life was practically _begging_ him to let him _try_ to help his brother and besides himself, Mycroft Holmes couldn’t think of another soul to put that much effort and persistence into his wayward brother and his iced demeanor began to thaw, only _slightly_.

“What did this man do to him?”

He could see John’s demeanor sour visibly and the doctor growled, “I don’t know. I think he hurt him again, but I don’t _know_. Sherlock wouldn’t let me go with him and I think he went again after I left for Dublin even though he _promised_.” He lifted his gaze and even Mycroft was surprised by the hardness he saw in the navy eyes, “Mycroft, I _will_ kill him if he continues to practice. He did something; I _know_ it and I refuse to let him do it to anyone else.”

Mycroft quirked a brow nonchalantly and sighed, “I am aware of your… intentions, John. I will see to it that he is thoroughly investigated and… _disciplined_.”

John sighed and nodded, “Thank you.”

Mycroft seemed to shift uneasily and his voice was soft as he asked, “Is there anything I can do to ease his way?”

John worried his lip between his teeth and shrugged slightly, “Be here for him? I don’t actually know what I’m doing either, but I know what’s been working.”

The politician nodded and caressed his hand gently over Sherlock’s brow as the man inhaled softly against his companion’s chest.

It would be a long road, John was sure, but he was nothing if not stubborn and Mycroft Holmes was the personification of protection and diligence. Hopefully _that_ would be enough to pull the detective back from his depths of despair.

 _If you love me back, Sherlock Holmes,_ John thought sadly, hugging the man tightly to his chest, _I will stop at NOTHING to heal your gentle heart. I promise you, I will die before I let one more thing happen to you._

Just as his mother taught him as a child, John slipped his little finger around Sherlock’s limp one and kissed his thumb gently to seal the covenant.

 _That’s a pinky promise, Sherlock. You can’t break those_.

_You can’t ever break those._

 


	11. Time Heals All Wounds

_Warmth._

The last thing Sherlock could remember before this was the overwhelming chill of confusion and the bleakness of despondency that wrapped over him like a shroud of debilitating ice. His mind was still a muddle of conflicting information spouted at him from all sides, and yet in _this_ moment, he could feel a blissful blanket of _warmth_ and _security._

He splayed his hand out, testing the fabric that he laid on ( _Egyptian cotton, my own bed)_ as his consciousness slowly lapped over his mind like low tide would caress the beach. He inhaled the sweet aroma of tea leaves and laundry and as his hand traveled closer to his face, he felt the thick duvet slip over his shoulders as if someone had tucked the fabric all the way to his chin.

 _Curious,_ he thought. As his hand escaped the confines of the duvet, he could feel the warmth that seemed to permeate throughout the room. Certainly, Mrs. Hudson would have something to say about their electric bill. Perhaps he could get John to charm her into silence. Sherlock felt himself smile as his eyes remained closed and his thoughts reached happy territory.

 _John_.

In his dream, he had told the good shadow _all about_ the wonderful man as he had held him next to the fireplace. _He’s the stars that light up my night sky_ , he had told him as the shadow ran his dark fingers through his ebony curls. Sherlock could remember admitting to the apparition how much he had cared for the short sandy-haired man and he could even remember confessing that he _loved_ him. How _strange._ Not that it wasn’t true, of course, but the fact that he had actually admitted it in audible _words_ was something that shocked even the detective.

Maybe he could ask the shadow what to do about the entire thing. Perhaps the dark spirit would have some insight to how best to approach the doctor to reveal to him the truth. Of course, that would have to wait until after he could stand to be around _himself_ again. Dr. Schinova’s words _really_ shouldn’t have taken such a hold on him the way they did and he was almost ashamed to remember the way he acted. He had _panicked_. _God,_ he was so sick and _tired_ of _panicking_. Where was the man who could examine a desecrated corpse without a bat of his lashes or demolish The Woman’s world around her without a sideways glance? Where was the man who stood firm and stoic as red dots sprinkled John’s face in the infamous pool? Sherlock could barely _remember_ that man, much less _be_ him and it leadened his heart. He sighed and finally resolved to open his eyes with languid motions of fatigue. His body _hurt_. It _ached_ like he’d been beaten and battered like a ship in a hurricane and every movement was taxing.

Suddenly his heart stopped.

Not even a whole meter away was John- _his_ John. He’d come back! _Christ, how long had he been asleep then?_

The doctor was curled on his side, facing the detective with his eyes closed and his lips pursed in slumber. Although he was clad in his most boring- and probably warm- oatmeal jumper, Sherlock felt sympathetic for the man who lay on top of the duvet creating a barrier between the men by cloth which Sherlock couldn’t honestly admit he didn’t appreciate. His right arm curled underneath his head and Sherlock supposed that John had fallen asleep reading based on the book that was suffocating under John’s splayed out hand and forearm.

When was the last time Sherlock had seen the doctor so serene and peaceful? Certainly not any time in the last month; that was for sure. His brow was a blank slate wiped clean of worry and distress and the detective imagined that slumber had the ability to eradicate at least a _decade_ of wear and tear from his dear doctor.

Balancing somewhere between consciousness and slumber, Sherlock decided to lift his long fingers to test if the man across the mattress from him was in fact real and not a figment of his imagination. His palm must have been chilled, because as soon as he made contact with John’s warm cheek, the doctor’s lip and nostril jerked and the hand on the book curled and traveled towards John’s chest as if he were conserving heat.

Sherlock smiled as his fingertips traced the short hair around John’s ear that flicked back up as he passed them. Someone must have been giving a speech about the doctor somewhere in the world because his ears were red hot and practically steamed against Sherlock’s palm as he ghosted over the one exposed to the room.

 _His John_.

It didn’t matter if John ever actually gave his heart to him because just the fact that John was _here_ meant that he was _his._ There was at least _some_ part of that golden heart that belonged to Sherlock and that was enough for him to be contented.

Sherlock cupped the doctor’s cheek gently and tremulously traced his thumb over the light brow above John’s twitching eyes. The fair hair was coarse against the pad of his thumb and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel his heart glow as he thought of all the times that brow had quirked in incredulity towards some ridiculous thing he had said. If this was the closest Sherlock would ever get to John, he decided, he would memorize every laugh line, every freckle, every tiny bit of the good doctor’s face so that he could wallow in the memories when his melancholy attacked him with loneliness.

Just then, Sherlock’s heart lunged in his chest as his thumb went on its own accord towards the doctor’s thin lips. His breath was knocked from his thirsty lungs as he sensed the softness and tender sensation of John’s lips for the first time in his life.

_God, what he wouldn’t do to kiss him- just once. That’s all he would need to die a satisfied man._

John’s lips relented to Sherlock’s touch and pursed as Sherlock tested their defenses. Sherlock audibly gasped as the moist heat from between John’s lips pressed against the pad of his thumb as John unconsciously _kissed_ him. The detective watched with wide curiosity as the steadfast doctor puckered his lips against Sherlock’s skin as if he’d done it a hundred times over.

He suddenly clutched his hand to his chest, treating the kiss as if it were a palpable apparition; something he could hold forever and keep in a jar so that he could examine it on gloomy days. This was before he smiled and slowly brought his thumb to his own lips.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t _actually_ a kiss, but by God, it made his heart _soar._

He closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation as he heard John mumble and shift in his sleep until he felt the bed dip closer to him. As he opened his eyes, he found that John was _right there_. The doctor had shifted onto his stomach and was resting his head atop his right forearm, still facing the detective but with a proximity that gave Sherlock an inebriating sensation. John was _right there_. All the detective had to do was just _reach_ and he could steal a fabricated bit of affection from him. With the stimulation of lips against his, John might even kiss him _back_ and Sherlock desperately wished he could gather the gall to do so. However, his conscience nagged at his mind reminding himself that a stolen kiss was worse than no kiss at all, so he sighed, utterly defeated.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t have _some_ contact with him though. The detective gently shifted against the mattress until his nose was just barely an inch away from John’s skin and he inhaled the sweet spiced smell of his shampoo and cologne. Sherlock’s cat eyes danced over John’s face with the decreased distance and his chest warmed.

 _John was beautiful._ Perhaps he’d prefer to be considered handsome, but to Sherlock, John was a perfect specimen of his subjective ideals of beauty. No, Adonis would have no real competition from him in the eyes of the majority of plebian minds, but John’s generous heart radiated through his skin and enticed Sherlock like no one before. His golden hair had aged highlights of silver, his skin was scarred with war and danger, and his muscular body was protected with a thin padding of fat, so as a human he was incredibly imperfect.

But God, didn’t that make John absolutely _magnificent_?

He held his breath as the doctor began to stir next to him in hopes that he would settle back down and allow Sherlock to bask in his presence, but the doctor seemed to have no such plans. Sherlock nearly giggled at the adolescent-sounding groan he made as his mind began to come back online and he smiled as the navy eyes were slowly unlidded and focused on his face. For a moment, his sleepy, navy eyes locked on Sherlock’s and the detective wanted nothing more than to reach forward and steal that kiss _anyways_ , just because he _could_.

Without warning, John’s expression paled ( _almost comically_ ) and he jerked himself up with a yelp, successfully throwing himself and his unlucky book off of the bed with a loud _thunk_ that made the detective cringe. _Was he really that awful to see as one just awoke?_

“Sh-sherlock! Christ, I’m so sorry!” John stammered as he picked himself up from the floor and shyly flushed with embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to- aw Christ- I can’t believe I fell asleep- wait- you’re awake! Oh my God, you’re awake!”

Sherlock cocked his brow in silence as John grinned widely and sat on the mattress, making as if he were about to reach out towards him until he jerkily retracted his hand. Sherlock inwardly sighed, _Of COURSE, he must have found out about Dr. Schinova’s advances. John must be absolutely revolted by Sherlock’s defiled skin._

 _“_ May I touch you?” John quietly asked, his navy eyes wide and round as if he were actually _afraid_ Sherlock would deny him.

 _Permission? John is actually asking for… permission?_ That was most definitely unexpected. _When had he ever willingly rejected John’s touch?_ Furrowing his brow in confusion, Sherlock nodded.

His reply seemed to terribly thrill the doctor and his face lit up as his hand delicately reached around Sherlock’s wrist and took his pulse. John smiled at the satisfactory pumping and Sherlock almost jerked back as his eyelid was lifted so that John could assess for any signs of trauma that he might have missed. The detective closed his eyes and sighed happily as John’s warm palm cupped his cheek and caressed his prominent cheekbone.

“Can you sit up?” John asked quietly, his voice soft and sure and absolutely beautiful to Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find the doctor’s terribly concerned expression and resolved to eradicate it.

He nodded and began to pull himself up on his elbow before his head whirled viciously and he faltered, dropping back onto the mattress faintly.

“Whoa, _easy,_ mate!” John warned, his hand settling under Sherlock’s ribcage and the other on his shoulder, “Let me help you.”

Sturdy arms helped to lift the detective into a sitting position and although his head was still swimming, he found he was able to remain upright without too much nausea. He took a bit longer to force his eyes to compile John’s three faces into one, but as soon as he did, the doctor smiled warmly and embraced the detective in a secure hug.

“God, I’ve been so worried about you,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s neck, sending shivers down his spine and engulfing his mind in the intoxicating sensation of affection and overwhelming contact. Sherlock gently placed his head against John’s shoulder and lifted his arms weakly to return the embrace, humming his acceptance of John’s concern.

“You’re probably going to feel right awful for a few hours,” John warned him, apparently unable to relinquish his grip which the detective didn’t mind at all. “You’ve been out for a couple days and I have no idea how long you were out before I found you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and John felt the coarse hair brush against his neck so he answered the unspoken question, “You didn’t answer my calls so I came back early from Dublin and found you half frozen on your bed.” He chuckled nervously and the whispers of breath against Sherlock’s skin left goose pimples, “Scared me half to death you great idiot.” A hand snaked up the nape of the detective’s neck and found a home in his curls.

Sherlock sighed and shut his eyes, drowning in the myriad of sensations he was being exposed to and wanting nothing more than to just fall back asleep in the arms of the steadfast doctor.

“You’ve been out for _days_ , Sherlock,” John teased, nudging his cheek against the detective’s. “Come on back to the living. I need to get something substantial in you before you wither away to nothing.”

“Hmmm,” was the only response the detective could come up with and John smiled, the warmth of his teeth foreign against Sherlock’s skin.

“You’re always so eloquent,” John grinned, gripping Sherlock tightly to him once more before pulling back, watching cautiously as Sherlock swayed a bit on his own.

John shook his head as if he were remembering something terribly important and his expression suddenly became grave, “Shit- Christ, what if you don’t- Sherlock, do you know who I am?”

The detective furrowed his brow. _Of course I do. Why would John question- oh. John thinks I have brain damage. Lovely._

He nodded his head and grimaced as he swallowed the dryness in his throat. John immediately held up his palms before slipping from the bed and heading towards the kitchen, “Wait right there.”

The detective swayed as he rolled his eyes. _Where was he going to go? He could barely sit up straight, much less make a daring escape. Sometimes John was so odd._

There was a short run of the faucet before John returned with a glass of water and held it to Sherlock’s lips, “Drink up.”

Sherlock did just that and didn’t realize how much he loved the taste of water until he had downed the entire glass and there was a _chink_ as John placed it on the bedside table.

He crossed his legs as he sat back on the bed and stared at Sherlock sternly, “What is your name?”

“Sher-” He grimaced as he cleared his throat. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“When were you born?”

“Nineteen seventy-six.” _That was correct, right?_

John worried his lips between his teeth, “What is my name?”

“John-” He coughed and nearly slumped back into the bed again. “John Watson.”

There was a sigh of relief before John smiled, “Who is the current Prime Minister?”

Sherlock froze. _How am I supposed to know that? Oh no, John is going to think you’ve finally lost your mind and throw you into some hospital- Christ! Thatcher- that had been a Prime Minister’s name at some point, hadn’t it?_ His pulse began to accelerate. _Blair? No, that’s not it. Come on- try and remember!_

His panic was obviously evident on his face and John began to chuckle. A warm hand cupped Sherlock’s cheek just before the moist pressure of a kiss was bestowed upon the other and it made Sherlock’s head swim.

“You’re fine,” John said with a smile against his cheek, before he pressed another kiss there.

Sherlock was most definitely still asleep. Or perhaps he had finally succumbed to a coma and his mind’s fantasies were playing out before Mycroft decided to pull the plug. Either way, it was a lovely notion and Sherlock would probably be happy with either circumstance.

Heated lips left his skin and were replaced by the coarse sensation of sandpaper as John’s cheek pressed against Sherlock’s skin. _Was John normally this affectionate?_ Sherlock couldn’t remember.

“I’m so- I’m just- oh Christ, Sherlock, I’ve been worried sick,” John confessed as he retracted his face enough to rest his forehead against his friend’s.

The whisper of John’s breath against Sherlock’s skin was intoxicating and he supposed that death-by-fondness was really _quite_ a way to go. There was a strange sensation of hot moisture against his cheeks, but Sherlock knew that _he_ wasn’t crying and was almost certain that _John_ had no reason to weep, so its existence remained a mystery until John pulled back and wiped at his face with his sleeve and smiled.

“Come on, Watson; what are you doing?” He asked himself aloud, chuckling nervously before meeting Sherlock’s curious gaze with wet eyes. He held up his hand as he slipped off of the bed, “Do you want to try and get up or not quite yet?”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment and then extended his hand to grip John’s weakly. If he _had_ in fact been in bed that long, he most definitely needed to get _out_ of it.

John smiled and accepted his hand and helped Sherlock wriggle to the side of the bed and drop his pajama-clad legs to the floor. He then dipped himself under Sherlock’s arm and wrapped around his torso, somewhat sitting on the bed beside him, “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded silently and allowed the doctor to bear most of his weight as he slowly rose up on jelly legs and his head leaned against John’s shoulder as it swam with fatigue.

“You’re all right, Sherlock,” John assured him, helping him take his first few steps carefully across the room and towards the doorway. “We just need to get something in you and you’ll be back to yourself in no time at all.”

Sherlock’s gut clenched at the thought of food, but he was certain he’d have to suck up and deal with it, especially if he wanted to keep his John content.

“That’s brilliant,” John remarked as Sherlock began to pull more of his own weight away from John. “See? You’re already up and about- whoa!”

John had to quickly dip his knees as the consultant’s legs unexpectedly gave out and he chuckled, “Maybe not _quite_ yet, eh?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let John deposit him on the couch before the doctor went about flittering in the kitchen. The flat was incredibly warm- wasn’t it supposed to be December? Sherlock’s eyes bounced around the flat until he saw John coming back towards him with a glass of- _is that orange juice? When did they get that?-_ and untoasted bread on a plate. He set the plate down on the coffee table and wrapped Sherlock’s hand gently around the cold glass, kneeling in front of him.

“It might make you gag a little, but I want you to try and get this glass down. We need to get some vitamins and sugar inside you. You’re just a half a step above malnourished.”

Sherlock pressed the glass to his lips and although the overly sweet citrus liquid _did_ make his gut clench in opposition, he managed to down most of it, save one swallow.

John took the glass and swirled the lonely mouthful of juice around with a smile before putting it on the coffee table, “Seriously? You stubborn git.”

Sherlock grinned impishly as John placed the bread in his hands and he finally rediscovered his voice, “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just the smallest bit, John?”

John suddenly scowled, “You’d overreact, too, if you came home and found your best friend barely alive on his bed while it was less than freezing in here.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. _Best friend? Had John ever called him that?_

“You’re such an idiot,” John mumbled, lowering his gaze before jerking it right back up and addressing Sherlock sternly. “If something was wrong, why didn’t you call me?”

Sherlock’s fingers picked at the bread and made little balls of crumbs as he looked down at his hands shamefully, “I… I tried. I couldn’t quite…”

He sighed sadly and fisted his hand which John immediately wrapped his around, surrounding it in comforting warmth. Sherlock looked up at him and John pursed his lips apologetically, “It’s all right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be blaming you, I just- Christ, Sherlock, I was afraid you were going to _die_ right there in my arms!”

Sherlock frowned and looked back down, “I’m… sorry.”

Suddenly there was warmth on his cheek as John leaned forward and pressed his palm against Sherlock’s face, “No, no, don’t be sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all right, you’re all right; everything is going to be _fine_.”

Guilt welled in Sherlock’s chest and he leaned against John’s hand to confess, “I went back to Dr. Schinova’s the day you left.”

John’s hand trembled momentarily against Sherlock’s skin until he reined it in, “I know you did. I also know he did something to you.” He shrugged, “I threatened to kill him so your brother… uh, _disposed_ of him.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched up and he closed his eyes, “Good.”

A weathered thumb rubbed against his cheekbone and John’s voice filled his mind, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shook his head weakly against John’s palm, “I don’t need to. You were right. He was an idiot and preyed on those who needed help.” He opened his eyes and was met with John’s round navy ones that radiated concern, “I went because I wanted to tell him I didn’t require his services any longer, but I… I shouldn’t have gone to see him again after the first session, but everything he said… made _sense_.”

“What did he tell you?” John pressed, his thumb still stroking his companion’s face.

Sherlock thinned his lips, “He insinuated that I hadn’t actually been attacked and that I had made the choice to accept my fate that night.”

“ _What?_ ” John bit incredulously, his eyes turning dark with ire.

Sherlock shrugged, “It made sense. I assumed it was my fault the night it happened and when he repeated the notion, I suppose it stuck.”

“Sherlock,” John pressed, his fingertips pressing against Sherlock’s jaw, “none of this- absolutely zero percent- has been your fault.”

Sherlock sighed, “I don’t know how to handle this- _any_ of this, really- and he actually made a rather compelling argument. He asked ‘ _Don’t you think that it’s rather unsurprising that you find yourself in a compromising situation again?_ ’ just before he said, ‘ _You_ _chose_ _to come here today, just like you_ _chose_ _to follow that man into that room_.’ Then he… he _grabbed_ me and he said, _‘You’ve been in control this entire time, Sherlock and this is what you’ve_ _chosen’. I suppose I didn’t know_ _what_ _to believe_ _.”_

Sherlock actually _squeaked_ and cringed as John’s fist hit the innocent coffee table and a knuckle on the hand that had just been holding Sherlock was held captive between his teeth. The doctor shut his eyes and droned a low note as he forced his rage back down under the surface so the detective watched him curiously. He had known the doctor had a temper; it was obvious from the moment he’d met him, but he’d never actually seen the beast’s head breach the surface of John’s serenity. It was surprising and terribly interesting.

John sucked in a loud breath and pushed it out, flicking his eyes back up to the detective’s face, “Sherlock, that is complete bollocks. You know that, don’t you? What those men- those _monsters-_ did to you was _their_ fault; entirely, wholly, completely, one-hundred-percent _their_ shitty choices.”

The passion with which John was trying to convince Sherlock of his own innocence was quite comforting and Sherlock allowed himself to explain his actions for the last week, “You said that, but he made some rather persuading contentions to the contrary.”

“What, _pray tell?”_ John bit, his eyes narrowing.

Sherlock shrugged, “Men can’t get raped.”

John growled and flicked up a finger for each point, “For one, that argument is predominately used when men claim rape against _women._ For two, even then, it’s _still_ a horseshit argument.”

Sherlock’s chest warmed slightly at John’s fervor and continued, lifting his wrist for john’s examination, “He also claimed I did this for attention. That- I’m not sure why, but that actually was rather perturbing. I suppose I _did_ , but it was-”

“So I wouldn’t know you were raped,” John finished gripping Sherlock’s wrist and gently resting his palm on the pink scars. “You were frightened and ashamed and upset, it’s completely understandable, Sherlock. I can’t say I’m supportive that you hurt yourself, but I _do_ understand. It was self-preservation, Sherlock; not a crime.”

“They’re still hideous,” Sherlock remarked quietly, gently tugging at his arm until he realized John wasn’t going to let it go. He met John’s eyes and the round, navy orbs were soft as John pinched the side of his lips in.

“They’re a part of you, Sherlock. _Nothing_ about you is hideous.”

Sherlock gasped as warm lips were pressed against the damaged skin; once for every jagged line that bit into his flesh. That gesture of affection was almost too much and Sherlock _had_ to ask.

“John, are you _drunk_?”

John’s warm laughter filled the flat and he shook his head, “No, Sherlock. I’m not drunk. Am I upsetting you? I can stop.”

Sherlock shook his head fervently, not wanting the contact to cease and John smiled and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s arm, “Good.”

Sherlock watched him with astonishment as the doctor’s face lit up with fondness, “What else did he tell you? I want you to know the _truth_ about _all_ of this.”

Sherlock’s voice didn’t seem to work until he cleared his throat and stammered, “J-just reiterations of all of that. It seemed like the logical explanation for it all- an actual _answer_ and person to blame and I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

“The only ones to blame are the ones who hurt you,” John said sternly, resting his hand in Sherlock’s. “You have done nothing wrong. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock paused for a moment. _Did_ he actually understand that? It felt like every time he thought about it, guilt welled in his chest, but if the people who he actually _trusted_ kept trying to drill that into his head, certainly it had _some_ validity.

He nodded slowly and John smiled, “I am _so_ sorry that anyone ever told you otherwise. Will you _please_ allow me to make up for their lies?”

Sherlock crinkled his nose at the thought, “How?”

John shrugged and pinched his lip in, “Any way I can, I suppose. I’ve- well- I don’t think I’ve actually done an amazing job at helping you recover, but I want to try again and help you now.”

Sherlock felt an impulse in his chest and he acted upon it, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and tucking his face in the crook of his neck, “You’ve done so much, John; don’t think you haven’t. Please.”

John seemed shocked at Sherlock’s embrace, but quickly recovered and wrapped his arms back around him, “Alright, Sherlock. We’re gonna be okay. We’ve come this far, we’ll be all right; I promise.”

Sherlock inhaled John’s scent and found that the heady sensation it gave him stole his ability to keep the little-known truth in his mouth, “I _trust_ you.”

John had always asked his friend if he trusted him and was normally given an affirmative answer, but to actually hear the _admission_ of such an grand statement melted his heart in his chest and he gripped the detective to him as if he were afraid to let him go, “I will make sure that you never question that again, Sherlock. I swear I will protect you, no matter what. We’re in this together now.”

The detective smiled into John’s neck and closed his eyes. John’s vows were more precious than the crown jewels and more reliable than Mycroft’s snooping gaze. If John said he’d keep him safe, Sherlock knew no force on Earth would keep his doctor from fulfilling his word. _What an amazing gift._

His head jerked up at a sudden clap of thunder and he smiled as he looked towards the window.

 _Rain_.

Perhaps the rain would wash away the pain and desolation of the weeks past and would bring a new, more beautiful world in its wake. Hadn’t someone made a song about that? Certainly they had- humans are such sentimental creatures after all- _oh!_ The music played in his head as he saw the first drops of rain slip down the panes.

_The rain can't hurt me now; this rain will wash away what's past. And you will keep me safe and you will keep me close. I'll sleep in your embrace at last._

Sherlock cringed at the thought. _The wretched musical that Mummy loved so much had that lyric in it somewhere. Some nonsense about growing flowers or something to that effect._

John then pulled away from him and smiled, gripping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his brow, “Let me get that.”

John stood carefully to his feet and padded to the windows, lifting each a few inches so that the sound of the approaching storm could be heard everywhere in the flat which ( _for some reason Sherlock couldn’t quite understand)_ made his chest burn with adoration. The detective had no idea where this hyper-affectionate John Watson had come from, but he decided that, if given the opportunity, he would keep him.

“I’ve always loved the rain, too,” John admitted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the window and looked into the street. “Mum used to read us stories when it started to storm and it would put me out like a light.” He smiled just before turning back to Sherlock, his arms still crossed, “Would you- erm- like me to try? I can’t promise you that I’m any good, but it might, well, help you sleep if you’re still tired.”

Sherlock couldn’t say he was _exhausted_ , and he’d never really found the allure of listening to someone read ( _people were known to mispronounce every other word and butcher the wretched stories with their own inflection and interpretation),_ but the idea of such an intimate situation set his heart aflutter and he couldn’t refuse, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

John smiled a wide grin and rushed into Sherlock’s room to retrieve his mangled book before settling on the couch on the far side from the detective, placing a pillow from Sherlock’s bed on his lap. He patted it and pressed the book open with his entire other palm as if he could feel the words rise against his skin and read them like braille, “Come here.”

Sherlock lifted the almost forgotten plate in his hand and rested it gently on the coffee table before slipping onto his side and cautiously placing his head in John’s lap, careful to keep the juice in his stomach very much _down_ and _not_ all over John’s legs.

He had barely settled still before the familiar sensation of fingers playing with his curls made him sigh happily and close his eyes.

“Like that, do you?” John sighed happily, causing Sherlock to flush as if he’d just been struck and somewhat cower away from his touch. He was fed up with being the butt of people’s teasing and he wasn’t about to let John add to that number.

John immediately back-pedaled and rested his hand on Sherlock’s head reassuringly, “No, no, no, it’s not a bad thing. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. It was just an honest question. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock flicked an eye up to John’s face and the candor of his apology was evident on his features so Sherlock sighed, nestling his head into the pillow and raising his hand to curl in front of his face, “I would… not be opposed to you continuing your ministrations.”

John chuckled quietly and the fingers resumed their running through his curls as John cleared his throat, “If I’m complete shite at this, will you just tell me and save me the embarrassment of boring you to death?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re doing a rather spectacular job of that right now, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s eyes jerked open as the doctor gently flicked his ear and looked away as if he’d done nothing wrong before smiling back down at him and looking at the page, “Alright you git. You just sit there and shut up then. Think you can manage that?”

John sucked in a deep breath and then, as if he had been a practiced storyteller, began to read the words off of the page with just the right amount of inflection and enunciation that Sherlock _actually_ paid attention to his words.

 _“Sometimes, the Angel leans over the cradle,_ _as happened to Lotte, and that is how there are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than men of fifty, which, you must admit is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales. And sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a wicked heart or a bad conscience.”_

Sherlock knew this story. He didn’t have to sneak a peek at the front of the cover or even ask who Lotte was; to him it was practically common knowledge. _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra:_ A story about a musical genius with a scarred face who fell in love with a chorus girl and haunted an opera to the point of its destruction due to his own case of extreme self-loathing. Was John subliminally telling him that he needed to get over his own self-pity before he hurt them both? That would be terribly clever, but John didn’t have that sort of forethought. He had probably just seen a re-run of the musical on the telly and resolved to read through the book to examine the differences. John did strange things like that that Sherlock would probably never understand. What a queer human being, John was; an enigma of sorts. Who would want to read something over again or watch a re-run of an old programme if they already knew the ending? Wasn’t that pointless? Sherlock sighed and gripped the pillow gently, rubbing the fabric with his thumb. He would never understand people and it would just have to be that way.

“ _Little Christine asked her father if he had heard the Angel of Music. But Daddy Daaé shook his head sadly; and then his eyes lit up, as he said: ‘You will hear him one day, my child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!’ Daddy was beginning to cough at that time.”_

Suddenly a wave of new exhaustion rolled over the detective like high-tide on the sand and he could feel his consciousness slip away little by little until his entire existence was filled with the mollifying sound of John’s soft voice and the rhythmic drumming of clouds crashing against one another and raining into their city.

“ _When they took leave of each other by the roadside, Raoul, pressing a kiss on Christine’s trembling hand, said: ‘Mademoiselle, I shall never forget you!’ And he went away regretting his words, for he knew that Christine could not be the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny…”_

 

***

 

There was an unmistakable click against the stairs that made Sherlock groan and lean back against his chair, scowling at John, “Why don’t you just _change_ the lock already?”

John rolled his eyes in his opposing chair and smiled, “I know you hate him, but he’s not _entirely_ terrible.”

“When one looks up the term ‘insufferable’ in the dictionary, his face is the example they give,” Sherlock grimaced as the door handle turned and Mycroft’s familiar face walked in.

“Hello brother, dear. You seem well.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and pulled his legs up in his seat, “Yes, well John has me on a strict regimen of six-hour sleeping increments and two meals a day. It’s absolutely hateful.”

Mycroft’s thin smile twitched and he glanced at John who nodded back as a silent _thank-you_ was passed between them.

“Sounds like a proper prison sentence,” Mycroft teased, cocking his brow at the detective. “Speaking of prison, I have come by to bring you up to date on some information that has come to light.”

“What?” Sherlock pressed, uncrossing his arms and sitting up in his chair. Mycroft never said anything like that unless he should _actually_ pay attention to it.

Mycroft smiled, or perhaps it was more of a sneer, “Mr. Wilcox, was it? Either way, I have come to inform you that he has been thoroughly dealt with and is sincerely regretting his poor decisions.”

John pursed his brow, “I- he’s still…?”

Mycroft smiled at the doctor and it set his teeth on edge, “Yes, Doctor Watson. Contrary to popular belief, the government does not just _pluck_ undesirables from the face of the planet.” He narrowed his eyes, “Rest assured, Hell would be preferable to the fate our acquaintance has been assigned. It does not do to cross my brother in such a shameful way. He needed to be _disciplined_.”

Sherlock knew he probably shouldn’t have felt like that, but something in his chest lifted and he felt immensely better knowing that Mycroft had fulfilled his promise to him.

“Our unscrupulous psychiatrist wasn’t nearly as fortunate, I’m afraid,” Mycroft added faux-sorrowfully. “It would seem that he was… _unhappy_ with our offer and decided to take his own life. His receptionist was absolutely traumatized.”

“I hope he burns in Hell,” John remarked sourly, gritting his teeth.

“I am sure that is a valid possibility,” Mycroft said snidely, smiling again.

“Well that’s… _pleasant_ news,” Sherlock stated quietly, giving his brother the once over pursing his lips. Mycroft has having _far_ too much fun with this. Either it _actually_ upset him that Sherlock had been hurt and revenge was his way of _fixing_ it, or they had a terrifying closet psychopath on their hands. He sincerely hoped it was the former.

“Indeed,” he replied, twisting his umbrella in his palm. His expression suddenly became somber and his voice softer, “How… um, how are you, Sherlock?”

 _That_ caught him off guard. Was Mycroft actually asking after him? “I’m… _fine_ , I suppose.”

Mycroft straightened out his jacket and his eyes went to the ceiling which Sherlock noticed immediately: he was _nervous._ _Why?_ “Should you require any assistance, little brother-”

“Are you _dying_?” Sherlock interrupted causing Mycroft to sputter.

“Wait- what? No. No, as far as I am aware-”

“Then save your last rites speech,” Sherlock demanded, his cheeks flushing with the knowledge that Mycroft was actually _concerned_ \- even if he was a giant _prat_ most of the time.

His older brother thinned his lips and sighed, “Always so considerate, little brother. Shall I leave you be then?”

“You wouldn’t be that kind,” Sherlock sighed, earning him a glare from the doctor opposite.

“Well I see that you are in capable hands-”

“My own hands are capable enough!”

“-so I shall take my leave. Doctor Watson, John, it is always a pleasure.”

John rolled his eyes at the detective and smiled at the politician, “Of course. Perhaps next time Sherlock won’t be such a petulant little _brat_!”

Sherlock dropped his jaw and glared at the doctor, “I am not a _brat_!”

“Says the man having a temper tantrum,” John mumbled back flicking his eyes to the book splayed open in his lap. “Mycroft, I assume you know the way to the door?”

“I will see myself out, thank you,” Mycroft said exasperatedly, forcing himself from rolling his eyes at the detective. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Dear God, spare us your pleasantries!” Sherlock moaned, dramatically flopping over his chair.

Soon the door clicked closed and John sighed, “Was that really necessary?”

“What?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” John chided, flicking his book closed and standing up to stretch. “Your brother is just checking up on you.”

“He’s always been a terrible nanny,” Sherlock grumbled, his head thrown back over the chair.

John rolled his eyes and walked around to ruffle his companion’s hair before padding back into the kitchen, “Whatever.” His mobile chimed from where it was plugged into the wall and after he flicked on the kettle, he slid it open, “Greg wants to know how you are.”

Sherlock groaned, “Why is everyone under the assumption that I’m made of _glass_? I am a full-grown _adult_.”

“Who can’t get through a game of Cluedo without stabbing the board to the wall,” John teased, shifting his eyes to the wall in question. “Shall I tell him you’re fine then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Tell him to pick out his best suit. My funeral is at three o’clock.”

“Sherlock… is a giant… dickhead… There we go! Sent!” John grinned impishly at Sherlock’s affronted expression.

John had to admit, he was _relieved_ to see Sherlock picking at people again. Every snarky comment and snide remark was one step closer to him getting back to his old self and that made John’s heart soar.

“I’m _bored_ , John.”

 _That_ was music to John’s ears.

“Perhaps I could take you out,” John suggested with a shrug of his shoulder. “Might do you some good to get back into the real world.”

“Outside is _boring_ ,” Sherlock moaned, waving his hand dramatically. “Why won’t somebody just get _murdered_? Or steal an artifact from the museum- _something_ interesting for God’s sakes!”

“You barmy git,” John chuckled to himself. Sherlock might not have been at his full peak yet, but he was getting there. John still found him staring off into space for short periods of time to end up with him curling up in a ball of despondency before John would soothe away his troubles with fingers through his hair and irrelevant stories of his youth that sometimes made the detective laugh. It wasn’t perfect, but it was _better_.

“A single murder, John, that’s all I’m asking for. Not even a double-homicide or a phantom serial murderer- I’m not greedy.”

“Someone besides me would section you for saying that,” he grinned as he poured the tea he had just prepared into two cups.

“Well it’s a wonderful thing it’s not someone else, now isn’t it?”

John smiled and quietly padded over, depositing the second teacup before settling back into his seat, “Well we can do whatever you’d like, Sherlock- save murder someone. I’m off the entire day and tomorrow.”

Sherlock seemed to debate the issue in his mind as John sipped away happily on his cup before suddenly, “Where is that thumb drive, John?”

John coughed as he mis-swallowed his tea and he sputtered, “I’m sorry, what?”

“The thumb drive,” Sherlock repeated, his stomach sinking at the thought it falling into the wrong hands. “You haven’t lost it, have you?”

John winced and pursed his brow, “Well, sort of.”

Sherlock’s heart sank and his panic was evident on his face so John held out his hand placatingly, “No. Not like that- just- just hold on.”

He set his cup down and knelt down in front of the fireplace, sticking the poker into the ashes until there was a metallic _chink_ against it. John bent forward and pulled what _had_ been a thumb drive from the hearth and turned around to deposit it in the detective’s palm.

John sighed and looked down at Sherlock’s hand, “I- well- I came home and you were half dead and I was just sick with worry and I sort of lost my temper and tossed it in the fire.”

Long fingers curled around the destroyed piece of technology, “Why?”

John thinned his lips and lowered his gaze to his own hands almost shamefully, “I didn’t… I didn’t want anyone else to see it. I saw how much it upset you when those bloody officers did and I… I’m just tired of you hurting.”

Sherlock blinked long and slow as he felt the ash dirty his palm. He hadn’t even thought about it that way. John was trying to keep his promise even before he had made it. What a curious circumstance.

“Thank you,” he finally said with a small smile that made John look up. “I’m… I’m glad.”

“Me too,” John agreed with a meek grin.

Sherlock smirked, “You know, you could be charged with destruction of evidence.”

John laughed heartily and shook his head, “I suppose that makes you a terrible influence, doesn’t it?”

Both men smiled and sighed before silence reigned over the flat again.

“I’d like to go to the Thames,” Sherlock admitted quietly, not looking at the doctor.

“Would you like to go tonight?” John counteroffered with an honest grin, “I’ve looked up some more constellations that you might actually be able to recognize.”

“You and your fascination with raging balls of gas,” Sherlock sighed, but secretly he was incredibly happy. “I suppose we could do that.”

“Alright,” John smiled, his hand reaching up over Sherlock’s palm and gripping it tight. “How about this. I need to pick up some stuff at the market today and I am having withdrawals from your deductions.”

“The coffee shop in Piccadilly?” Sherlock proposed enthusiastically. It had been what felt like _forever_ since he’d deduced random strangers for John’s enjoyment and a cup of the Grimm’s Café vanilla chai was something he would practically _kill_ for at the moment.

John smiled and stood, extending his hand to his friend, “Sure. Come on, up you come!”

The hand that wasn’t occupied by the decrepit thumb drive accepted his hand and as he stood, he suddenly found himself just a tad too close to the doctor.

“Oh, erm, sorry about that,” John mumbled, backing away from him slowly. “I know you’ve still got the space issues.”

Sherlock thinned his lips and shook his head, “I don’t… actually mind it with you; if we’re going to be completely frank with one another.”

John’s face lit up like he’d been told he’d won the lottery and he grinned, “Good. That’s- that’s really good, Sherlock. I’m glad.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small grin as John padded over to the coat posts and slipped the Prussian blue scarf from its home. He then approached Sherlock gently and extended his body so that he could wrap the fabric around his flatmate’s neck; flattening it with his palms against Sherlock’s chest, “It’s, um, it’s supposed to be bloody cold outside.”

“I’m certain it is,” Sherlock stated quietly as he covered John’s hand with his own and pinned it against his torso.

John smiled up at him and then slid his hand from underneath his friend’s allowing him to wrap his arms around his torso, “I’m so glad you’re starting to feel better, Sherlock. I’ve missed you so much.”

Touched by the affectionate gesture, Sherlock returned it and pressed his lips into John’s short hair, “My sentiments exactly.”

John pulled back and patted his chest in a friendly manner as he turned and walked towards the coat posts again, “Well come on, you mad man. Daylight is burning!”

John smiled back at him lovingly just before he padded down the stairwell and Sherlock grinned at the empty space he left in the doorway. John was _so_ much more than a friend and yet Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he was.

Sherlock smiled and tossed the piece of trash back into the fireplace before he pulled his greatcoat from the post that John had just retrieved from Mrs. Hudson’s careful hands. The landlady had spent a decent chunk of an entire day getting all the grit and crud off of the Belstaff and poor John had to listen to her entire rant as he decided Sherlock wasn’t well enough to deal with her at the time. The detective’s chest warmed at the thought of his friend’s guardianship and he grinned.

Maybe there _wasn’t_ a term for his John Watson.

He stepped down the stairs and greeted his friend/companion/savior/what-have-you at the door, finally deciding:

_Labels are boring anyways._


	12. Touching Moments

“Mary left you.”

John inhaled sharply from where he was falling asleep sprawled out on the couch and pinched he brow, “What?”

He opened his eyes and found that the detective was kneeling right in front of his face, staring at him and he startled slightly. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, “Mary left you. Why?”

John rubbed at his eyes and yawned, pulling himself up on his elbow as he stretched his sore muscles, “And how do you know that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Your mobile has only received messages from Lestrade and myself and you have barely left my side since you came back from Dublin; besides going to the surgery, you’ve made three trips outside of the flat without me and all of them were either to Tesco’s or the bakery down the street; your cologne hasn’t been mixed with her perfume since before you left for your conference; _and_ you haven’t spoken about her at all. It’s elementary.”

John smirked and raked a hand through his hair, “Of course you’re right, but it’s too early for this.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “Too _early_? It’s three in the afternoon, John!”

The doctor smiled and ruffled Sherlock’s hair as he stood and stretched out his back before padding into the kitchen, “Yes and I just woke up, thus it’s too early. Tea first, then you can interrogate me.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor and pursed his lips. It wasn’t _his_ fault the doctor crashed on the couch as soon as he returned from the surgery, so why should he have to wait to question him?

“You’re not upset about it. Why?”

John sighed and shook his head, “You sound like a five-year-old. Why, why, why, indeed.” He cocked a brow at Sherlock and grinned as he poured his tea, “I suppose it just wasn’t working out for me.”

“But _you_ didn’t leave _her_ , _she_ left _you_. You’re supposed to be upset about it. That’s what normal people do, isn’t it?” Sherlock queried furrowing his brow. He knew _that_ much about relationships, or perhaps he didn’t?

John pinched his lips and shrugged, “I already told you that I didn’t love her. I _couldn’t_. And it wasn’t fair to her that she was putting so much effort into me and I wasn’t reciprocating. I’m not upset, I’m… actually relieved. Now she can find someone who treats her the way she deserves to be treated. There’s no tragedy in that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head. That didn’t make _sense_. People were meant to be resentful and spiteful when they were left by their significant others. It was almost _too honorable_ that John felt that way- it didn’t seem real. It seemed as if John’s heart was impregnable; what a convenient thing.

“Stop it.”

John’s voice pulled him from his reveries and the detective looked up, “I beg your pardon?”

John smiled and sipped on his cup, “You’re thinking, stop it.”

“I’m _always_ thinking,” Sherlock protested sourly, standing to his feet and eying the doctor.

“Of course you are,” John teased, winking at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock prodded, narrowing his eyes.

John’s chest burned with adoration of his companion and he chuckled, “Absolutely nothing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped gracelessly on the, “I’m _bored_ , John.”

John laughed and shook his head, “When _aren’t_ you bored?”

“ _When I’m asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_ ,” Sherlock teased back, flicking his eyes to the doctor who startled a bit at the lyric.

“I didn’t think you’d paid attention,” he remarked incredulously, padding over and sitting next to the detective, allowing the long feet to rest in his lap as he caressed the detective’s shins.

“I always pay attention to what comes out of your mouth, John,” Sherlock admitted confidently with closed eyes. “I just throw away all the irrelevant details.”

“In one ear and out the other?” John questioned lightly earning him a smile from the consultant. He slipped his fingers gently down Sherlock’s foot and lightly dusted his fingertip across the inside of his friend’s arch, causing the detective to yelp and jerk his leg into the air, sealing his fate.

“Don’t. You. _Dare._ ” Sherlock growled, slowly dragging his feet towards his body while John’s mischievous smile grew larger.

“Sherlock Holmes, is there something you failed to mention?” John pried, turning slightly so that he could face the detective who was beginning to flush to the color of a beet.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said through thin lips, trying terribly hard to conceal a grin he didn’t want to advertise.

“I think you’re _lying_ ,” John winked, leaning forward and pressing his hand against Sherlock’s side causing him to squeak again and swat at him fruitlessly.

“John Watson, you stay right there and- no, stop it! Ha! _John!_ Stop- stop it, you fiend!” Sherlock couldn’t contain his forceful laughter as John began to poke and prod him in unfamiliar places and giggle. _What were they; seven years old? They were full grown men; they had business doing this!_

“You’re a terrible liar, Sherlock,” John teased as the man writhed underneath him and gripped his shoulders in a halfhearted attempt to push him away. “A terrible liar with an absolutely _lovely_ smile.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and squawked as John remained above him and pinched his sides, “And _you_ are the most malevolent adversary I have ever had the- Ha! Stop it!- misfortune of encountering!”

John smiled a bright smile and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, grabbing his hip to prevent him from slipping off of the couch and onto the floor. The detective’s grin fell away and he suddenly felt _very_ cold as John’s thumb accidentally dug into his hipbone. _Oh no._ He pinched his eyes tight several times to try and eradicate the sensation of hands gripping at his hips away from his mind, but to no avail. _Come on, not NOW. Please, don’t let it make you- God, not NOW._

“J-John, l-let go,” he stammered barely more than a whisper, actually starting to resist his friend’s playfulness with weak arms. His voice cracked with emotion as his fight or flight reflexes began to pump adrenaline into his rapidly pulsing blood. “J-John, please- I m-mean it. S-stop. _Stop!_ ”

John lifted his gaze to the suddenly _ghostly_ white detective and jerked up, holding his hands out in surrender, “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

The detective’s chest caved in on him and he began to shiver with the terrible chill of his mind. He sat up straight and pulled his legs to his chest; pinching his eyes tight and holding his breath until the sensation dwindled away.

John’s eyes widened with concern and guilt. _God, what did I do?_ “Sherlock, I’m sorry, are you- what’s wrong?”

“I’m f-fine, J-John,” Sherlock stuttered feebly, tucking his face in his knees. “G-g-give me a mo-moment.”

John did just that and sat still as a statue as Sherlock’s trembling finally ceased and his mind was his own once more. He let out a shaky breath and murmured, “I’m fine… I’m _fine_.”

“You are,” John agreed, extending his hand slowly to the detective, giving him ample time and space to move away. “You’re all right, Sherlock, it was just a flashback; no harm, no foul.” His hand tremulously raked through the dark curls as he hummed, “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“How- how long do those keep happening?” Sherlock meekly asked into his trousers, consciously avoiding John’s eyes.

The doctor sighed and shook his head, “I don’t- I’m not sure. It’s different for every person. Mine lasted for a really long time; about a year or so.”

“ _Oh God.”_

John’s heart tightened in his chest as his companion’s cry and he scooted over to him gently, “It might not take you that long, Sherlock. You’re a considerable bit cleverer than I am.”

“I don’t have control over my own _mind_ , John!” Sherlock cried, tucking himself closer into a ball.

“You might not right now, but you _will._ It just takes _time_ , Sherlock,” John pleaded, slipping his hand between Sherlock’s cheek and his arm and cupping his jaw, pulling him up gently. The brilliant green-blue cat eyes were bloodshot with grief and made John’s heart sink with sympathy. “It’s going to be _fine_ , Sherlock. We’ll just have to take it one step at a time, okay?” Sherlock exhaled unsteadily and nodded, lowering his gaze until John tapped his thumb against Sherlock’s cheek, “You are not alone, Sherlock. You _have_ to remember that. You will _never_ be alone again.”

Sherlock’s lower lip trembled and his body slumped into John’s arms, allowing him to surround the distraught detective with comfort. John ran a hand through the quivering curls and _shhh’d_ away the memories, “They’re _going_ to happen, Sherlock. These memories- it’s completely normal. It’s just… I don’t know- Christ I’m a rather shoddy therapist aren’t I?”

Sherlock chuckled sadly against John’s jumper, “As compared to _whom_ , exactly?”

John pursed his lips and sighed, “That’s… that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock sighed, sucking a deep breath and exhaling shakily. “I’m just… This is _ridiculous._ I just want to be _normal_ again.”

John chuckled and rested his cheek against the other man’s temple, “You were never _normal_ , Sherlock. That’s what I like about you.”

That was obviously the right thing to say as Sherlock smiled and nodded against his chest, “Out of my myriad of redeeming features, you choose _that_?”

John hummed as he thought about it and then he patted Sherlock’s back, “Well, your experimenting on decayed flesh runs a close second, but I might just be biased.”

Sherlock hiccupped and rubbed his hand at his face, sighing uneasily, “Perhaps.”

The doctor puffed out his cheeks and the air made Sherlock’s hair dance before him, “You all right?”

The flushing detective pulled himself back up and meekly nodded. He puffed his cheeks out as well and raked a hand through his unruly mane, “Ironic isn’t it, John?”

John smiled and tilted his head, “What?”

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly and rested his face in his hands upon his knees, “My greatest strength has now become my ultimate adversary.”

The joy slipped from John’s expression and he rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Oh, Sherlock.”

“It would make sense,” Sherlock breathed, his nostrils humming air against his palms. “Fate has a rather unorthodox sense of humor.”

“I don’t find any of this funny,” John mumbled, lowering his head.

Sherlock laughed dourly and shrugged, “You wouldn’t, would you?”

“What does that mean?” John queried, turning his face towards the detective, who jerked his head up and bared his teeth.

“John, this _is_ hilarious,” he bit, not looking at the doctor. He narrowed his eyes at the floor and growled, “I am a man gifted with an observant mind who is tormented by what I see.” He gestured angrily at his friend, “Furthermore, I seek refuge in the one person I trust- who _happens_ to be tactilely inspired- and I can’t bear to be _touched_. Doesn’t that sound like the punchline to a rubbish bar joke? Oh come now, don’t you find this the slightest bit humorous?”

“ _Enough_!” John snapped jerking his hand out and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist, causing his eyes to widen in shock as he pulled him to his feet.

“John, what are-?”

“Proving a point,” John interrupted sternly, flicking his eyes up then back down. “Now shut up.”

As Sherlock stood, John tugged at the wrist and led them into Sherlock’s room, standing just before the bed.

He looked up as he placed his palm on his and exhaled nervously; lightly brushing their skin together before moving up. Sherlock swallowed audibly and watched with a curious eye as the doctor’s deft hands slowly trailed up Sherlock’s forearm, tracing the blue veins that stood out in the pale skin.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quietly, his thumbs kneading the brachial muscles and his breath shallowing. He flicked dark navy eyes up at Sherlock who seemed to pale considerably, but didn’t offer any opposition.

“Always,” he whispered breathlessly, his eyebrows parenthesizing his round eyes as his heart began to flutter.

John pressed forward a tad, causing the detective’s knees to buckle against the foot of bed and he sat down, leaning back as John towered over him. _I’m not entirely sure I know or like where this is going._

John’s hand raked over the dark curls and cupped the back of his neck, sending gooseflesh all over his own, “You’re terrified of contact and I’m terrified of losing you.” Sherlock inclined back against the bed as John’ leaned forward and he found himself at John’s total mercy.

Sherlock exhaled uneasily as John’s hand slipped through the curls and his friend’s navy eyes met his own, blown wide with swelling panic. He pulled himself farther on the bed to allow John more room and swallowed his anticipation, which John took notice of immediately.

“How do you feel?” John asked quietly as he perched himself over the trembling detective.

Sherlock’s heart began to attempt to free itself from the confines of his ribcage and he stammered almost silently, “ _T- terrified.”_ If he could admit such a weakness to anyone, it would be John.

There was warm pressure at his brow as John smiled and placed one hand at his ribs and one at his shoulders, “Don’t be.”

Before he knew it, the bed slipped away from his back and he was perched over John’s supine body warm underneath him. John’s hand slipped from his chest and cupped the detective’s face, bringing it close to his. He pressed a kiss to his brow before slipping his fingers around the thin wrist and pressing Sherlock’s palm against his own pectoral, causing Sherlock’s stuttered breath to whisper against his skin.

Sherlock’s fingertips practically bounced upon John’s skin with every thrum of his strong heart and he could barely keep himself up from the heady sensation filling his body. _What are you doing, John?_

“Sherlock, if you want to be touched…” John began softly, his words whispering against Sherlock’s cheek. “Let me… _touch_ you.” At Sherlock’s cocked brow, John explained, “Place your hands on me and I will copy you. That way, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to; _you’re_ in control.” He placed his palm just above Sherlock’s heart causing the detective to gasp and look down at him. John smiled, creasing his eyes, “I _will not_ hurt you. If you want me to stop, I will let go immediately; you just have to say so. Okay?”

Sherlock’s chest heaved slightly with nervous breath before he lifted his trembling hand and placed it at John’s ribs. The doctor reciprocated and his thumb traced a rather prominent rib delicately as he smiled, “You need to eat more. I don’t want you withering away to nothing on me.”

Sherlock’s nerves dissipated for a moment as he chuckled then hung his head, lowering his gaze until John’s fingertips lifted his chin. He pressed a kiss to his cheek and smiled at him, “Don’t be afraid, Sherlock and most definitely don’t be ashamed.”

Sherlock sighed shakily and nodded, sliding his hand down and gently gripping John’s hip. If he was going to test his abilities, why not test where it upset him most? John seemed to understand his rationale and let his thumb trace over the hipbone lovingly as he lifted up and pressed a kiss to the bottom of Sherlock’s jaw, causing the detective to close his eyes in order to revel in the contact.

“We’ll see if we can’t replace some of those memories,” John promised quietly against Sherlock’s skin, raising gooseflesh on his pale body. Sherlock smiled gently as both of John’s careful hands gripped his thin hips and massaged the flesh while humming softly.

“Why do you put so much effort into this?” Sherlock queried softly, releasing John’s hip and flattening his palm against John’s belly which the doctor reciprocated with an easy caress.

John smiled as he looked up and shrugged, “I’m a doctor; that’s what I do. And besides, this is _you,_ Sherlock. You deserve more effort than most.”

Sherlock replied with nothing besides a smile and John considered that quite the victory. He waited for Sherlock’s hand to glide up his skin and cup around his neck before he spoke again, gripping the nape of his friend’s neck gently, “How do you feel?”

Sherlock closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to John’s cheek eliciting a small gasp from him, as he had yet to be privy to that sort of affection from the detective. “John, you are magnificent,” he mumbled darkly against John’s skin, raising goose bumps of his own. “A pinnacle of Asclepius care.”

“Hmm,” John hummed turning his head so that they were nose to nose. “Glad I selected the right career then.”

Sherlock looked down into the navy eyes and he could feel his heart try to beat out of his chest. _Christ,_ he wanted nothing more than to just lean down and kiss those thin lips and taste the concern and happiness that flavored them. _Would you mind, John? Would you allow me to believe for just a brief moment that you were mine indefinitely?_

There was a sharp inhalation as John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s neck and his thumb rubbed softly against his manubrial attachment. Sherlock pinched his eyes tight as he tried to eradicate the sensation of a meaty hand gripping his breath from him just before John’s tender voice entered his thoughts.

“You’re all right, love. I’ve got you.”

Trembling subsided and Sherlock slowly lifted his eyes to see John grimacing and biting his lip as if he had uttered something vile. He slipped his hand from Sherlock’s skin, “I’m… sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean-”

“Do you mean it?” Sherlock interrupted quietly, his eyes flickering down to John’s throat anxiously. If it actually had been a true spoonerism, he certainly didn’t want to advertise his disappointment to John. _Please say you do._

John decided to play it safe and respond with a question in kind, “Does it… bother you?”

Sherlock _hadn’t_ expected that. The question that was then proposed rung in his mind: _tell John your sentiments and risk him hurting you, or trusting him with the only secret you have left?_ He could hear his heart thrum loudly in his ears and he clutched one arm to his chest as if shielding himself, “Would your answer change?”

This game of questions was _terribly_ confusing and John furrowed his brow, their eyes still not meeting, “I’m sorry?”

“Does your answer depend on whether I answer in the affirmative or the negative?” Sherlock mumbled, his cheeks burning with anticipation and his arm beginning to tremble from holding up his weight.

There was a stiffening of John’s muscles underneath Sherlock’s body and then the doctor sighed, shaking his head, “No, it wouldn’t. But if it does bother you, I will try not to say it out loud.”

Sherlock’s relief was evident in his slowly expanding smile and he closed his eyes, resorting to dipping his head against John’s chest, “You…um, you needn’t worry then.”

John’s body relaxed with a nervous sigh and the doctor pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair, “Okay. I’ll try not to blurt it out next time, though.”

Sherlock’s heart practically ceased beating in his chest.

_Next time._

That meant John was going to say it _again_. That word- that four-letter word that had evaded Sherlock his entire life was now his moniker; his pseudonym. Was there a grander feeling than this? The fact that John had blurted it out in a moment of mollification meant that it had jumped right out of John’s heart and through his mouth without his mind to catch it in the filter and toss it away. That meant it was _real._ Was it _just_ a pet-name, though? Was it just a term of endearment or was there something _substantial_ behind it? Sherlock’s heart glowed in his chest and he sucked in a deep breath in anticipation, lifting his head to meet John’s eyes, “Do you love me, John?”

There was a light exhale of breath that blew Sherlock’s curls away from his face and then a soft chuckle, “Well I sort of hung myself out, didn’t I?” John blinked, his eyes bouncing between the cerulean ones staring back at him, and sighed, nodding his head, “I do, Sherlock. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. But it’s completely _okay_ if you don’t feel the same way, please don’t feel pressured in _any_ way. Just being with you in this context is enough to make me happy.”

Sherlock let out his shaky breath and gasped as if he were about to weep into John’s chest, so the doctor clutched him tightly and began to _apologize_ , “ _Fuck!_ I’m so sorry, Sherlock! I didn’t mean to upset you. I can- aw, Christ. I know it’s probably too much right this- I’m sorry-”

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock suddenly hollered, pulling himself out of the embrace and shaking his head fervently. He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and cheek and neck in his haste, praying that he hadn’t just convinced John to forget that sentiment towards him just yet. “No, no, no; please don’t _ever_ be sorry for that.” He tucked his face in the crook of John’s neck and whispered his final confession into the tender skin, “I… I love _you_ , too.”

 To hear the secret John had been privy to the night Sherlock lay half-dead in his arms finally uttered in conscious context and with _emphasis_ made John’s heart _soar_ and his eyes welled with emotion as he lifted his arms and hugged the detective tightly to him, “Good, that’s… that’s utterly _brilliant_.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded nigh silently against John’s skin, shaking his head. “Just… just _stay._ If this is a hallucination, I don’t _ever_ want to return to lucidity.”

John chuckled as a tear of joy slipped down his cheek as he closed his eyes and his hand pressed against the back of Sherlock’s head, “My sentiments exactly, Sherlock. I love you, _so, so_ much. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort before something dawned on him, “That’s why… _oh._ ”

“What?” John queried nervously, pushing away slightly to look into the detective’s face. His expression was bright and distance as if he had just figured out how some obscure clue fit into a case. Cat eyes flicked to him and Sherlock sat up on his heels, straddling John’s legs, and steepled his hands in front of his mouth.

“You said you couldn’tlove _Mary,_ not that you couldn’t _love._ I just hadn’t realized that _I_ was the buffer between your relationship.” Suddenly he frowned and pursed his brow, “Does that upset you?”

John smiled and shook his head, lifted himself and wrapping his arms back around the mad detective, “No. Absolutely not. Never.” He chuckled and nestled his face into Sherlock’s skin, “It’s always been that way. Every girlfriend, every date- it was never going to amount to anything and I _finally_ figured it out. It all made sense that night I found you at the Thames. I couldn’t…” He gently shook his head with his eyes closed against Sherlock’s skin, “I couldn’t give my heart to anyone else while you had possession of it…”

Sherlock was most _definitely not_ crying and anyone who would have suggested otherwise would have been terribly misinformed, but warm moisture began to slip down his cheeks when the thought hit him: John had said _“it had always been that way”_. That implied that there had been something connecting the two for far longer than even the detective was aware. Why hadn’t John spoken up sooner? This was wonderful; this was brilliant and beautiful and perfect. He smiled and gripped John tightly to him, exhaling short chuckle of pure joy. John _loved_ him. He had _admitted_ it. _Wouldn’t Mummy be proud?_

John smiled against Sherlock’s skin and the detective arched his neck in order to increase the contact area, “What are you thinking?”

Instead of speaking, Sherlock pulled his head back and used his chest to gently press John back against the mattress and tasting John’s jaw, “I love you, John Watson.”

“Have you found a new favorite phrase?” John teased with a hum as Sherlock’s warm lips caressed his skin.

There was a nod and a whisper of cool against the dampness of Sherlock’s kiss that made John gasp, “I like the way the words taste on my tongue.”

John smiled and dusted his hand against Sherlock’s waist, “Then feel free to repeat it as often as you feel necessary.”

The detective lifted his head and met John’s gaze ( _open, happy, honest, frightened- but not showing it, pupils dilated, aroused, MINE)_ and decided to take the plunge.

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips against John’s, but was surprised to find the salt of John’s fingertips gracing his mouth instead. He opened one eye and crocked a brow, mumbling against the hand that separated them, “Did I… _miss_ something?”

John chuckled and shook his head, but still kept his hand between their lips, “Sherlock, there is probably nothing more I would like to do at this moment than kiss the very breath from your lips, but I can’t. Not yet at least.”

Sherlock exhaled against John’s skin and flicked his eyes down. _You knew that was too good to be true, you idiot._

“I _will_ kiss you, Sherlock,” John promised confidently, pulling his hand from between their lips and cupping Sherlock’s cheek. “If you will allow me to, I will kiss you until neither of us can breathe and the taste of you is ingrained in my memory for all of eternity. But an actual kiss is _terribly_ intimate, Sherlock.” _That_ caught his attention and the detective looked up and met John’s eyes. They were soft and dark with compassion, “It can be frightening and we can’t just dive into everything all at once or you’ll be overwhelmed and might decide that this is not for you- which is _fine-_ but I want to take it slow to try and prevent that- if at all possible.” One hand gripped Sherlock’s hip gently and pressed it against his own, the friction of which caused Sherlock to gasp. John smiled and rocked against him, “Sherlock, I want to show you what it means to be _loved_. I want to show you that being touched by another person should feel _good_ and should make you feel _whole_ and I can’t do that if we just jump into everything just yet. I want you to be _comfortable_ with me and with my touch before I kiss you because I don’t want there to be an _inkling_ of fear on your lips.” John’s hand slid to the small of Sherlock’s back and held him to him, “Does that make sense? Are you okay with that?”

Sherlock searched John’s expression for any suspicion that John wasn’t honest in his words, but found none and was surprised at the sensation in his chest: _relief_. John was thinking this entire thing out terribly thoroughly and that took the responsibility away from the detective. _John is magnificent, beautiful, and compassionate-_

“I love you,” he blurted out again, pinching his face tight in irritation. _You’re going to wear that phrase out until John doesn’t believe you anymore._

On the contrary, John chuckled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. I love you, too.”

Sherlock then thinned his lips and lowered his gaze, “John, I’m not certain you understand how inexp-”

“I don’t care,” John interrupted sternly, shaking his head and causing the detective to look up at him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, “I don’t care if I’m the first person to kiss you or the hundredth. All I care about is that you love me and trust me not to hurt you. Everything else will come out in the wash and we’ll play it by ear until we figure it all out, but don’t for one _second_ think that I won’t be satisfied with you.” He lifted his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s earlobe and he shivered- finally understanding the whole _terribly intimate_ comment. “The fact that I can press my lips to your skin and taste your happiness is more than I could have ever asked for, so everything from this point on is just extra benefits.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned his head down against John’s shoulder, half-lying on his torso, “Thank you.”

John grinned and rested his cheek against the inky mess of hair, “You don’t have to thank me for being honest, Sherlock.” He rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder blade and lightly massaged a knot he felt in the muscle, “Are you _sure_ you want to go through this? If you’re not ready, I will wait for you.”

 _God, where do you get your endless supply of patience from?_ Sherlock nodded, shifting his shoulders to allow John more leverage, “I don’t need to wait. I just feel…” He searched for the term before John decided to help out.

“Happy?”

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, humming against his flatmate’s skin, “Ad nauseum. And terribly… _lucky_.”

John laughed heartily, causing Sherlock to jump slightly from the jerk of his musculature. The doctor shook his head and pressed a kiss to his companion’s brow, “You just remember that feeling next time you start yelling at me for not patching you up fast enough.”

The detective rolled his eyes, but couldn’t contain the warmth that his heart was radiating through his body. John wasn’t going to change. In a relationship or not, John was still going to be _John_. That was a terribly comforting sensation.

“We’re going to be fine, Sherlock,” John promised, running a hand gently over the dark curls. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

 

This time, Sherlock actually _believed_ him.

 

***

 

Although he never seemed to have a problem with personal boundaries, it still seemed to shock the detective whenever the doctor brushed against him as he passed or let his fingers linger on his own when he passed a cup of tea.

 _Is this the idea of domesticity?_ Sherlock wondered, watching the doctor stretch his legs out as he yawned until they were close enough to touch his toes on the floor. _How… quaint._

Sherlock had originally been terrified that joining the doctor in this sort of _partnership_ would result in the irritating squabbling that seemed to be portrayed on the crap telly Mrs. Hudson enjoyed, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that that was _not_ the case at all. They bickered. They bantered. They argued. But they never _fought_. It was incredibly encouraging to have such a stabilizing force to depend on.

“How did your ear experiment pan out?” John suddenly asked, jerking Sherlock’s thoughts from his toes and up towards the man smiling at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your experiment on how frozen ears reacted to acid,” John clarified, shifting his book closed on his lap. “What did you find out?”

Sherlock shook his head and smiled. He should have known that if anyone would take a real interest in his work, John would be it, but the idea was still novel and still _invigorating_. He began to explain the different reactions based on acidity and basicity and how hydrochloric acid created quite an interesting effect on the fractal design of the iced skin.

“It still amazes me how you continue to find experiments on morbidity,” John teased with a smile as Sherlock lowered his hands from the air where he had been gesturing to different effects. “Do you think you’ll ever get bored?”

“Not likely,” Sherlock admitted, steepling his hands. “There are just too many unknowns for me to research and I want to know them _all._ There’s only one being I know who has completed such a feat and he’s an arse to deal with, so I must resort to learning them for myself.”

“God is a right wanker sometimes,” John agreed earning him an earnest grin from the detective.

“I meant Mycroft, but the names are synonymous.”

John nearly spilled his tea all over the carpet as he gripped his sides and giggled and Sherlock’s chest warmed from the sight. John was _beautiful_ when he smiled. If he was forced to lose his sight at the drop of a hat, he would beg whatever deity existed that John’s happiest grin be the last thing he ever witnessed.

“I’m sure _he’d_ like to think so,” John finally added after wiping his face on his sleeve. “You’re awful; you know that?”

“That’s a common notion,” Sherlock quipped earning him an eye from John.

John opened his mouth to retort, but his familiar tone interrupted his thought and he rose to check the message.

“It’s Greg,” John announced, sliding the message open.

 _Greg? Who’s Greg?_ “Who?”

John rolled his eyes, “Honestly, Greg is not the most difficult name to remember, Sherlock. _Lestrade_ says he has a case for you.

“Oh!” Sherlock jumped to his feet and padded over to John in the kitchen, deciding to read his screen over his shoulder.

John smiled at him and leaned his back against Sherlock’s chest, something that _still_ surprised him. Sherlock tremulously wrapped his hands around John’s waist and the doctor seemed pleased so he clasped his hands and leaned his chin on his shoulder, “Perhaps if he wasn’t so _dull_ , I’d put forth the effort. What is it?”

John shook his head and furrowed his brow, “Dunno. It just says ‘ _double homicide near West End.”_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “That’s odd.”

“Hmm?”

Sherlock unclasped his hand and pointed to the message, “Normally Lestrade signs his message like we do.”

John shrugged, “Perhaps he was busy?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock mumbled skeptically pressing his lips to John’s jaw. “I think he’s sleeping with my brother.”

John swiveled around and near broke Sherlock’s nose with the force, “ _What_?”

“Christ, John!” Sherlock whined, rubbing delicately as his snout. “Mycroft had a trace of Lestrade’s cologne on him when he came last. I just chalked it up to Mycroft’s recent interference with the judicial process of certain people.”

“You think he was too preoccupied with your brother to sign?” John questioned with a cocked brow.

Sherlock shook his head, pointing to the message again, “I think Mycroft wrote that. He has this odd habit of capitalizing every word. He might not have ever texted Lestrade before, so he might not have known he had a signature.”

“That’s… _odd_ ,” John hummed looking back up at Sherlock. “Does that bother you?”

He shrugged, “Not in the slightest. Perhaps he’ll use his pull to find me interesting cases to keep me out of his way. Win-win on either side.”

John chuckled, “Perhaps you’re right. Are you ready then?”

Sherlock nodded and padded over to the post to slip on his coat as John smiled at him. He cocked a brow, “What?”

John smiled and shook his head, “I think you’re beautiful.”

His pale cheeks flushed hot red and he lowered his gaze to the blue scarf in his hands, “Certainly you’re mistaken.”

John ambled quietly over to him and kissed his cheek, “Then let me revel in my ignorance.”

Sherlock watched as John slipped from the doorway and down the stairs and he could feel his chest beat in time to the pounding of his feet.

He finally shook himself from his reveries and slipped down the stairwell, kissing his puzzle on the cheek before stepping out into the December air.

Whatever this sensation was that gripped him to the very core, he could think of no better way to feel. Exposed, yet protected. Vulnerable, yet strong. It was an enigma of conflicting emotions and it matched his John very well.

How fitting.

 

How _interesting._

 


	13. New Heights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER: Mild Violence and Vivid Sexual Scenes

“Are you feeling all right?”

John’s soft voice interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts as their cab turned down the final street towards their destination and caused him to jerk his eyes towards him. Round navy ones gazed back at him and he sighed, lowering his head.

“I suppose you don’t want them to know,” he said quietly, leaning against the door and staring at his hands.

“Them to know…?” John questioned himself before his face went lax with understanding, “Ah. You think I don’t want Greg and all of them to know we’re together. Is that what’s upsetting you?”

Sherlock remained silent, but pursed his lips, making the conscious effort to look out the window and away from John. Suddenly, warm fingers gripped his chin and gently turned his head until moist heat was pressed against his cheek, settling his anxious heart.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled against his skin, pressing another kiss there, “If you want me to carry you into that crime scene like a bride over the threshold, I would have no problem doing so. If you want me to yell out my love for you to every person I meet, I will do it. Don’t ever think I am ashamed of you.” He smiled as he pulled away and Sherlock’s closed eyes opened to stare back at his. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Regardless of whether the world knows it or just you, it will nonetheless be true.”

Sherlock pinched his lips in a sad smiled and nodded, leaning his forehead against John’s, conscious of the irritated scowl they were receiving from the cabbie, “I don’t think it will be necessary for you to carry me, John, but I do appreciate the notion.”

John chuckled and pressed another quick kiss to his cheek before settling back into his seat, “Good; you’re a bloody dense wanker anyways.”

Sherlock barely had time to scoff at John’s teasing before the cab jerked to a stop and the cabbie ordered them out into the street. John tossed some notes at him before following Sherlock out into the December cold. The scene was in a set of flats near Hyde Park and John was seriously surprised at the amount of snow on the ground. White painted every surface and made him walk just that much closer to his companion to drown out the chill from their bodies.

“Christ, it’s cold!” He mumbled with chattering teeth against Sherlock’s shoulder as they waited to cross a street towards the complex. He found his moment and decided to take it, wrapping Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder, and his around Sherlock’s waist, leaving Sherlock in the leading position. “Shut up and keep me warm; you’re like a bloody space heater!”

Sherlock blinked in shock at John’s desire for public affection, but made no effort to deny him, gipping him tightly to his chest, allowing his taller body to shield the doctor from the nightly gusts of wind that travelled from the openness of the park to their side. It was true, he was a space heater; his body temperature normally ran a degree or so over the average and his skin radiated the extra heat through his clothes until he practically steamed in the night air. The detective smiled as John tucked his head against his chest almost similar to how a woman would situate herself against her beau. Then the thought hit him and his chest glowed: John was letting Sherlock play the dominant party member and stay in control so that _he_ could decide how much they allowed everyone to see. _How considerate._

He gripped the man to him and pressed a kiss to his golden hair as they finally crossed the street and reluctantly let him go so that they could slip beneath the crime scene tape and climb the seven flights of stairs into the flat in question.

“Evening,” Lestrade greeted them as he watched them walk suspiciously close together into the hallway and towards the open door to the flat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smiled. _Red hair on his shoulder, standing straight and tall- means confident- means sexually satisfied by partner, missing ring- finally left wife, laugh lines deepened- been smiling more frequently as of recent; you might as well tattoo it on your face, Lestrade._

“You look… _well_ ,” he said with a genuine smile as he placed a hand at the small of John’s back and pressed him into the room.

Lestrade was obviously taken aback by the out of place compliment and he grimaced with suspicion, “Erm, thanks, mate. Um, you do, too.”

“I am,” he said softly, allowing Lestrade to catch his more-than-obvious gaze of yearning towards the doctor as John walked into the scene and knelt before the bodies on the ground a few meters away. His eyes softened and his small smile was warm and unfamiliar to the D.I.

Lestrade’s eyes bounced a few times as if he were having difficulty accepting it as fact before his face lit up and he smiled, big and white, “Sherlock, are you saying… you two…?”

Sherlock smiled at him and rubbed his hand over his scarred forearm absently, “I’m certain a man of even _your_ limited intellect can piece-”

His thought was never fully voiced as the breath was knocked from his lungs by a forceful embrace and there was a heavy clap at his back.

“You bastard, I never thought you’d get it through your thick skull!” Lestrade laughed, gripping his friend tight to him.

Sherlock’s bewildered expression earned him a snicker from John who had no illusions to what had just taken place and Sherlock scowled at him silently from afar.

“Ah, yes well,” Sherlock mumbled, awkwardly patting Lestrade on the back, his face flushing bright red as a few of the Crime Scene Investigators began to turn and give them odd looks. “Seems that… um, it’s resolved itself.”

Lestrade chuckled and clapped him again on the back – _Christ, has Lestrade ALWAYS been that strong?-_ and pulled away, smiling, “Good news to hear, Sherlock. I assume you’re doing better then?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and sighed, lowering his gaze before nodding shyly, “In all honesty, yes.”

Lestrade smiled and clapped him on the shoulder in a rather paternal way, causing Sherlock to look up. Dark chocolate eyes warmed as they creased in a genuine smile, “I can’t tell you how bloody brilliant that is to hear. He’ll be good for you, I know it.”

Sherlock, desperate to remove himself from the spotlight, shrugged and rolled his eyes, “Yes, well it seems that I am not the only one with new relations.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but subsequently shut it and narrowed his eyes, shaking his head, “Nope. Don’t wanna know. You’re not about to give me the riot act, are you?”

Sherlock bent forward as he laughed, crinkling his nose, “I doubt _I’d_ have to intimidate you against the might of the British government, Lestrade. But I would suggest that you compose your own text messages should you not want to advertise-”

“ _Sherlock_!”

The detective’s joy slipped away from his face as he felt his legs swept from beneath him and the crack of the wall against his skull as a hefty _something_ crashed to the ground where he had just been standing. He blinked hard and fast, attempting to piece together what had just transpired, as he felt warm hands cup his cheek.

Blue eyes were fiery and determined as they met his and John’s stern voice filled his mind, “Sherlock, are you all right?”

His eyes rolled around in his head a bit as he shook off the impact from John’s body against his and the wall and forced himself up, narrowing his eyes at package and the ceiling. The _something_ that had nearly bludgeoned him to death turned out to be an empty wooden bookcase that had shattered as it made contact with the tile of the floor. He rubbed his neck absently as he lifted his gaze. _Christ, that would have hurt._ The flat had an upstairs- _Had no one thought to check there? REALLY?-_ and he caught a glimpse of a smaller man’s hands disappearing behind the railing as he took off. His soles bounded up the stairs and he barely heard the frustrated _“Sherlock, wait!”_ coming from the man behind him.

As he reached the upper landing, he heard the _click_ of the window opening and he ran into the room to follow, just barely missing a bullet to the hip as he did so. The man slipped out of the window and onto the joining rooftop and Sherlock slid his thin body out after him into the December air.

Snow made the roof like black ice and the detective slipped as he chased the man across one awning and onto the other, just barely catching himself before he watched the suspect slide behind the top of another complex and down its side.

His coat billowed beneath him as he slid down the same eave and found the man pointing a gun at him from where he hid behind a windowed lift in the roof.

“Stay back, you Gaver!” He shouted, slipping slightly and having to right himself before he could aim the barrel back at the detective.

Sherlock crinkled his nose and cocked a brow, “You honestly believe I’m with the Met? Have you _seen_ my attire? Surely you’re not as blind as your terrible aim would suggest.”

He narrowed his eyes at the other man and scowled. _Five-foot-seven, short blonde hair, severe trembling in his left leg, Gunpowder Residue on his hands, blood underneath his nails, ah! There it is._

He had barely even caught a glimpse of the corpses in the flat, but he now had a relatively good idea of what had occurred. He shoved his hands in his pockets and let out a hot breath, white smoke billowing from his lips, “Bit chilly out here, don’t you think? Perhaps we could find more accommodating lodging _inside_.”

“What’re you playing at?” The man hollered, his hand trembling as he shivered in the night air.

Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes, “Fine, we’ll do it your way. I suppose you have a lot of steam to blow off anyways; murdering your wife and her lover surely gets the blood boiling.”

“You don’t know that!” He yelled, gritting his teeth together and pinching his eyes tight.

“Don’t I?” Sherlock queried, cocking his brow. “You’ve been scratched rather deeply on your leg, your wife had blood beneath her fingernails- presumably yours- and her lover’s face was shot as such a close range, it must exhibit sincere loathing on someone’s part. And _honestly,_ you _reek_ of sexual frustration. You’re _boring_.” Sherlock exaggerated a frown and tilted his head, “Although I must admit, the bath salt in your wife’s nostrils was an odd touch. Something personal, I suppose?”

“You shut your mouth!” He hollered, letting off a round at Sherlock’s head, but missing due to his severe trembling.

“Watch it!” Sherlock bit back, bending his knees to avoid the bullet. “There are _children_ in that park over there and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot at them! Have a little _respect_!”

Another round ricocheted to Sherlock’s side and he felt the bite of lead graze his lower thigh. He hissed through his teeth as he clapped his hand to his leg and scowled, “Why are you angry with _me?_ What did _I_ do to you? It’s the _Yard_ who will be serving your punishment; not _me_.”

“I know your face!” The man hollered, ducking behind the lifted roof as he shot off another round at the detective who slid down the icy rooftop as he tried to duck away. “You sent my brother away for _life_.”

“Well I’m sure he was worthy of the sentence,” Sherlock scowled, noticing the crimson stains on the white snow.

“He was _innocent_ ,” the other man yelled, his voice cracking with emotion.

Sherlock scoffed, cocking a brow and shaking his head, “Not if _I_ helped send him away! I don’t make mistakes. What was he charged with?”

The man obviously hadn’t expected that response and he faltered, “He- um- you sent him to prison for killing his wife’s sister.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Do you _realize_ how _vague_ that is? I need _specifics!_ ”

The man furrowed his brow and looked down into the snow, “She drowned in her bath; it was an accident!”

Sherlock groaned at the man’s incompetence and raked his mind for a case with that limited information until one stuck out, “Short, blonde woman? Late fifties? Had a shoddy tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder?”

“Yes!” The man cried out, pointing the gun directly at Sherlock’s chest, “That’s Anabel! It was an accident and you sent James to prison for it!”

Sherlock shook his head and held out his hand to explain, “He wasn’t _innocent_. She drowned because she had a seizure and fell into her bath- a seizure _caused_ by hyperoxia. Your brother poisoned her with her own oxygen tank while she slept. It was _obvious_!”

“You’re lying!”

“Did you not look at _any_ of the reports?” Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes. “It couldn’t have been more apparent if they’d found his hands around her throat!”

Unfortunately, the detective hadn’t been entirely aware of how hot his legs and shoes were against the frozen snow, but his body began to slip down the slope as it melted beneath his frame. It seemed that the criminal was having a similar issue and both men slipped with a yelp towards the eave above the street seven floors beneath them.

Sherlock grappled against the melting snow, but his gloved hands finally found purchase on the metal eave as his frame slipped off of the roof and out into the air above the street. He looked down and immediately regretted it; his stomach dropping through his shoes and his chest clenching in apprehension. He pinched his eyes tight and ground his teeth, _Christ, I hate heights._ His legs swung beneath him as the suspect made a similar mistake, but didn’t remain as stoic as the detective.

“Fucking Christ!” He hollered, his face draining of all color as his bare fingers were cut by the freezing metal he clung to. His gun slipped down the roof and he just barely caught it where it fell and aimed it back at the detective who had no way to avoid it. “I’ll put you down for good, you bastard.”

“Surely, you are aware of the physics that would be involved in you shooting off that gun,” Sherlock said plainly, his fingers aching from holding up his weight. _Where the hell was JOHN?_

Blood dripped from the fresh wound in the criminal’s hand and Sherlock watched as the little red droplet travelled the terribly long distance down and splashed against the asphalt below, sending an icy feeling into the pit of his stomach and causing his fingers to clench even more so at the eave.

“You’re an idiot!” The blonde man hollered, jerking the gun back at Sherlock’s face and cocking back the safety.

“Says the man about to shoot a gun when he has nowhere to recoil to!” Sherlock bit back, trying in vain to pull himself up. He could feel the sickly warmth of his own lifeblood dripping down his thigh and calf and he regretfully looked down just in time to see a drop of it plummet towards the ground below. _God, I’m going to be sick._

“She’s gone,” the man moaned, tapping the back of his firearm against his temple. “She’s gone and James is gone; there’s no point!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization. _Suicide by police. THAT’S why he stayed. He WANTS to die. This is so very not good._ “So you’re going to fall to your death from a building? Seems a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“You _shut up,_ you bastard!” He hissed, pointing the barrel square at Sherlock’s temple and growling. “I want you _dead_.”

“Yes, we’ve established that and if we’re to be honest, the method you’ve chosen is a bit _dull_.” Sherlock sighed, grimacing as his fingers started throbbing from his weight. He decided he had less than five minutes before his frozen fingers would give out on him and he decided to try and swing his long legs up towards the roof. He grunted with the effort and managed to get one foot onto the rooftop before there was a crack of a bullet careening past him and clipping him in the shoulder, causing him to cry out and lose his grip.

As he had predicted, the man quickly lost his hold on the eave and the gun was tossed to the ground as he tried to recover with his other hand.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, just in case the doctor had followed them out and _somehow_ hadn’t seen the blood or tracks in the snow on the roof. He _was_ quite unobservant after all. He managed to pull himself up far enough so that his forearm rested in the eave and he called out again, “ _John!_ ”

There was an animalistic growl before Sherlock turned and saw the man swing towards him and _release_ the roof in order to grab at Sherlock’s heavy coat.

“What are you _doing_? Let me go!” Sherlock barked as his weight practically doubled and his arms bruised against the eaves.

The man who had gripped the detective’s coat by the pockets smiled and began to swing, “I want you _dead_!”

Sherlock yelped as his arms slipped from the eaves and forced him to grip back at it with his hands as the weight beneath him threw off his equilibrium. He kicked out and managed to land a blow to the other man’s gut, but the hands in his coat pockets had a tighter grip than he imagined and his fingers were having a terribly difficult time keeping up with the momentum of the two men swinging.

 _You’re going to be okay, don’t look down._ Of course, the detective proceeded to glance towards the ground and had to stifle the bile that rose in his throat. _Christ, that is a LONG way down. It’s all right; John wouldn’t leave you stranded out here. Don’t panic, don’t panic. God, why is this man so heavy?!_

There was suddenly the distinguishable ring of sirens a hundred feet below them and Sherlock looked down again to see a few of the Met’s cars lining up underneath them before Lestrade’s familiar voice echoed from a megaphone.

“Sherlock! Hold on, mate- we’ll get you down. Just… don’t let go!” He sounded terribly nervous and that unsettled the detective’s stomach.

“Well, I hadn’t been _planning_ on it!” He hissed back, baring his teeth as he tried to lift himself again with the additional weight of the other man.

One hand suddenly relinquished its grip on the sharp metal as the man yanked at his sleeve unexpectedly and Sherlock cried out in terror as his life was balanced on four fingers on his non-dominant hand.

 _Nononononono_ , _don’t let go. Oh God, don’t let go!_

The man smiled as he jerked his fingers up beneath Sherlock’s ribs and bruised the tender pressure point making Sherlock’s head swim and his hand loosen. Sherlock looked up in horror as his breath came in gasps and his fingers finally started to slip off of the metal.

_No. No, no, no. This is NOT going to be it._

Sherlock’s eyes were wide with fear as he felt his long fingertips finally released the cold eave and for a split second he could feel his body suspended in the air like an animated film. Perhaps he wouldn’t fall if he didn’t look down; that seemed to suspend physics in those stories, anyways.

He felt the offending hands let go of his person and the lost heat sent chills down his entire body.

God, he hated heights.

 

***

 

John chased up the stairway and his stomach sank as soon as he watched the detective slip through the window and chase after the suspect on the white housetops.

“Christ, you bloody idiot!” John hissed sticking his head out for a second to establish which direction they were headed before sliding back and turning his head to examine the room.

There was no way the detective would make this easy, so he needed to be prepared to save him from slipping off the roof- it was only obvious. He chewed his lip as he finally caught a glimpse of the golden cord that lined the window frame and he ripped it from the curtains.

He tore it from the fabric and measured out the entire length- _about six feet_ \- and rolled it over his arm before slipping out on to the roof.

John’s entire body stilled for a split second at the sound of the round being shot off in the distance and he could feel something unrelated to the weather chill in his gut.

_No. No, Sherlock’s fine. MOVE._

He forced himself to follow the dark footprints in the snow as he heard another round fire off a few rooftops down. At the sound, he startled and slipped down on one roof, barely catching himself on a low-set chimney as he kicked off a large helping of white fluff onto the street below. He ground his teeth as he steeled himself to rise again and jerked as he heard another round followed by a yelp that stopped the heart beating in his chest.

The fear forced his feet to run over the white slippery surfaced and he just barely caught a glimpse of the one set of hands and his friend’s forearms clinging to the eave before he heard his name after one last gunshot.

“John!” There was a groan as if his companion was trying to pull himself before he heard it again. “ _John!_ ”

John looked down and his gut clenched at the sight of crimson staining the snow. _Christ, Sherlock’s been shot! It’s not much; perhaps it was just a graze._

 John nearly slipped in his haste to help, but the practical side of his brain kicked in and he unraveled enough cord to wrap tightly around his waist and flustered as he searched for somewhere to tie the anchor. There wasn’t nearly enough powder for a snow anchor, and John bit his lip in frustration before he caught a glimpse of the window that one of the men had obviously been hiding behind. He tried to open it, but since it rebelled against him, he kicked it in, shattering glass and slicing his jeans as he slipped through and searched for something to fasten his lead to.

_Come on, come on, come on- ah ha! Yes that’ll do!_

He jerked up an aluminum bat that was hiding behind a set of boxes in this stranger’s attic and knotted the other end of his cord around its middle and pulling it tight. He crossed it over the diagonal of the window, jerking his cord to make sure it could withstand at least _some_ pressure.

There was another yelp and then a murmur of _“Nononono_ ” before John decided it held well enough and he slid down the roof, kicking snow everywhere in his haste.

_“Sherlock! Hold on, mate- we’ll get you down. Just don’t let go!”_

John’s chest warmed at the thought of the D.I. just seven stories below them but then he heard Sherlock cry out again as one hand slipped from its hold. The doctor heard a gasp just as he reached the eave and his eye caught a glimpse of the man he loved losing his grip on the metal and freefalling into oblivion.

“Sherlock!” He yelled as he lay flat on his stomach, jerked out his dominant hand and just _barely_ caught the one that had just relinquished its grip on the eave as the detective looked up to him in complete shock.

His face, pale with fear brightened up and his cat eyes gleamed, “John!”

John groaned as the cord pinched on his soft underbelly but his hand never relinquished its hold on Sherlock’s wrist, “Don’t let go, Sherlock! I’ve got you.”

Sherlock did exactly that, and gripped John’s wrist just has strongly, clasping his right hand over the other side of John’s as he swayed in the air precariously.

The doctor pulled with all of his might against the rope and managed to tug Sherlock’s upper torso to the eave that the detective gratefully clutched onto. As he finally pulled himself up, John gripped the Belstaff’s shoulder pads and gently helped Sherlock back onto the roof, the detective shimmying away from the edge frantically as he finally lifted his legs up.

“Oh my God,” he muttered under his breath, pulling his legs to his torso and staring in shock at the edge of the building. The adrenaline finally began to wear off and his entire frame began to shiver in withdrawal and chill from the weather.

John scooted back and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, just in case he began to slip again and slowly filled the dark night air with nervous laughter.

Sherlock scowled and shot him a nasty glare, not pulling his hand away from the doctor’s grip, “What pray tell is so _funny_ , John?”

John creased his eyes and gestured to the eave, “You tower over everyone and yet you’re afraid of _heights_ ; of _all_ things.”

“I am not afraid of _heights_ ,” Sherlock bit back, pulling himself closer to John and wrapping his wrist in the cord around his waist, “I just don’t prefer plummeting to the ground.”

John chuckled, and pressed his lips into the messy, dark hair, “Hmm, yes, well it’s not the fall that kills you.”

Sherlock suddenly snorted and shook his head against John’s shoulder as his trembling began to dissipate, “John Watson, you are _insane_.”

“Great minds think alike,” John smiled, gently easing himself away from Sherlock and slowly rising to his feet and unwinding the cord from around his waist. “Can you stand?”

Sherlock seemed hesitant at first, but eventually let John pry him from the rooftop and wrap an arm around his torso. He bit his lip as he lifted his arm to John’s shoulder and gasped as he tried to put weight on his left leg.

John pursed his lips as he helped Sherlock to the side of the building and slipped down from the roof onto the emergency access stairs. “Just slip your legs down,” he directed, his Captain Watson voice projecting over the distance. “I’ll help guide you.”

The detective let his feet dangle from the rooftop, sending soft white slush everywhere, before he finally mustered the gall to drop and was startled to find John’s sturdy hands slipping up his long torso as he fell and catching him around his torso again. He landed with more force than he had anticipated on his leg and hummed in pain to himself, biting his knuckle to keep from shouting out.

“Here, let me make sure you’re not about to bleed out,” John suggested, lowering Sherlock’s tall frame to the grated floor of the stairs and helping him slide out of his jacket. “Where all were you hit?”

Sherlock forced air through his nostrils at the back of his head tapped the railing, “Just my shoulder and my thigh. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you,” John said sternly, flicking his dark eyes towards Sherlock’s before peeling back the damaged trousers from the wound and hissing air through his teeth. “You got a little bit of the fabric in there; I really need to clean this out. You’re an absolute fucking _idiot_ , you know that?”

Sherlock chuckled and leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder, “I love you, John.”

John rolled his eyes and smiled as he carefully plucked the bloody shirt from the grazed shoulder, “I hope you don’t think you can just say that and I’ll stop being cross with you. It won’t work.”

“Never,” Sherlock smiled as John pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead and began to pull the Belstaff back onto his companion.

“Come on, love,” John said standing up and extending a hand. “Let’s get you back on solid ground.”

Sherlock wrapped his uninjured arm around the shorter man and continued to hiss air through his teeth as he put weight on his leg.

“Just lift up your ankle,” John suggested, wrapping his arm tightly around his torso. “I’ll help you, but you’re just going to hurt yourself that way.”

The detective scowled, but did as he was requested; finding- much to his surprise- that John was considerably stronger than he let off and easily supported Sherlock’s weight along with his own down the stairs.

Just as they were hitting the first floor, John began to chuckle, earning him a glare from the detective.

“What now?”

John gripped the hand over his shoulder in his own and smiled, “Seems like I got to carry you tonight after all.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort and subsequently shut it, finding that he had nothing really to say. He instead began to chuckle and continued to do so until John helped him down the ladder and onto the ground, just as the D.I. bustled over to them.

“Sherlock, you all right, mate?” He barked, white air puffing from his lips.

Sherlock pursed his lips and shifted on the foot he could, “I’ll be fine. What happened to our suspect?”

Lestrade cocked a brow and exaggerated a frown, “What do you think happened to him? He jumped off a bloody rooftop!”

Sherlock grimaced as the corner of his eye caught an EMS personnel flipping a white sheet over something in the distance with a scowl, “How comforting to know that would have been _my_ fate had it been left up to you.”

Lestrade bristled and his cheeks flushed, “Well we _were_ setting up a net; we probably would have caught _you_!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and whined as John shifted against his shoulder, “ _Lovely_.”

“Why don’t I take you home before you piss someone _else_ off, Hm?” John suggested, smiling at Lestrade who seemed relieved at the reprieve.

Sherlock reluctantly acquiesced and allowed John to lead him away from the crime scene as the doctor hollered back at the D.I., “I’ll get him patched up and Sherlock will be _more_ than happy to give you his statement tomorrow morning, isn’t that right?”

The detective rolled his eyes and grimaced as he raised his arm to hail a cab. He lifted his gaze once more to the offending rooftop and scowled as he tried to swallow down the anxiety boiling in his chest.

God, he hated heights.

 

***

 

“Sit down over there and I’ll go grab my kit,” John ordered, pointing to a chair in the kitchen as he turned his back and headed into the bathroom.

Sherlock slipped his heavy coat off and limped over to the chair, lifting his leg into the air as he slumped into it. He held his palm to where the bleeding had for the most part subsided and lifted it with a sigh. Crimson stained his pale hand and he pursed his lips in irritation. _Blast it all._ _These were my favourite trousers._

He looked up just as John padded back into the room and knelt at his hip, almost laying his palm on Sherlock’s thigh before jerking it back as he thought about it. He looked up and pinched his lips.

“Are you all right with me touching you?”

Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes, “I am not a China doll, John. I can handle you patching up my wounds.”

John rolled his eyes right back and opened up his kit next to Sherlock’s chair, “Okay, well do you want me to cut your trousers up or do you want to relieve yourself of them?”

Sherlock hadn’t been expecting that. He really should have, though. How else was John going to patch up his wounds? It couldn’t be _that_ hard to just do what they used to do.

“I’ll just… erm, well,” he stammered, suddenly feeling terribly self-conscious and vulnerable. He pinched his eyes tight and puffed out his cheeks as he steeled himself to stand and shimmy out of his trousers. He flicked his eyes to the doctor who seemed to not be paying him any mind as he set up a little station of gauze, hydrogen peroxide and various other medical supplies and it settled the anxiety in his heart. _John was going to be completely professional about this, so there was absolutely nothing to worry about. John fixed things; he didn’t make them worse._

John suddenly hissed air through his teeth as Sherlock startled, jerking his eyes towards the grimacing doctor.

“I didn’t realize it was that deep,” John admitted as Sherlock gently pulled his legs out of the fabric and sat back down on the wooden chair in nothing but his pants. John’s warm hand grabbed his knee as he inspected the wound about three inches above his kneecap. “Fuck, you’re gonna need stitches.” He spun around and pulled a brown bottle and popped open the top, pouring some of the liquid into the cap. “Here. Swallow that while I clean this up.”

Sherlock did as he was asked and grimaced as he swallowed the familiar bitter liquid. _Morphine, blech._

John chuckled and Sherlock looked down as he dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the wound, “I’ll get you something to wash out the taste in a second.”

The two sat in companionable silence as the doctor set about cleaning and patching up the wound until he decided the morphine had been given enough time to fully infiltrate Sherlock’s system as the detective’s eyes began to blink slower and more frequently.

“Good, you need the rest,” John mumbled, earning a half-hearted glare from the detective. “This might still sting a little bit,” John warned as he stuck the other man with his suture and quickly pulled the skin together, noticing how quiet the detective seemed to be about the entire thing. Normally, he’d have at least complained about _something_ by this point.

“You all right there?” John queried, lifting his eyes up to catch the detective’s white face and pursed lips. He knotted the stitch and jerked his hands back, lifting one to the detective’s cheek. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock bit, pinching his lips between his teeth and forcing measured breaths out of his nostrils, “just hurry up.”

“I can do that,” John promised, making quick work of the antibiotics and wrapping before walking into Sherlock’s room to find a pair of sleep trousers. His slipped one drawer open and found a decent blue pair and padded back to the detective, holding them out for his inspection. “I’m done with your leg; you can cover back up now. Could you take your shirt off though? I need to see your shoulder.”

Sherlock seemed not to meet his eyes as he jerked the clothes from John’s hand, stood awkwardly on one foot and slipped the comforting material around himself again. He then slumped back down and slightly shook his head, pinching his eyes tight as he rid himself of the dark blue shirt, hissing as the bloodied fabric caught on his wound. _How are you ever going to be intimate with him if you can’t even stand him touching your LEG?_

“I don’t mind,” John suddenly said, as Sherlock slipped the shirt off and left his torso completely exposed for John’s examination. He leaned in and dabbed the wound with more Hydrogen peroxide, flicking his eyes to the detective’s. “I know you think I’ll leave if I can’t touch you. It’s practically written in marker on your forehead.”

“What’s the point of a romantic relationship for you if it doesn’t involve sex?” Sherlock abruptly bit out, jerking his eyes away from John who sighed sadly.

Sherlock jerked his face back towards John as he felt the doctor grip his hand and press his fingers to his lips. Round and friendly navy eyes creased in a sad smile as he mumbled against Sherlock’s skin, “You have touched me in _so_ many ways I could have never even imagined, Sherlock. That alone makes this different than anything I’ve ever experienced.” He then leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s cheek before relinquishing his hand and setting about cleaning the wound again; attempting to distance the awkwardness from the conversation. “If I never get to touch you that way, I will still be happy. You have already told me that you loved me, so how could I ask for more?” He chuckled, causing the detective to flick his eyes down to see his smile, “Anyways, I’ve never been with a man, so I’d assume I’m a pretty shoddy lover in that department as of this moment.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small grin that John returned as he wrapped some gauze on the superficial wound, “We’ll be all right, Sherlock. If you never want to have sex, that’s fine. If we get to the point that we shag every night and twice on Sundays, that’s fine. It’s _all_ fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but in his chest affection burned like a bright bonfire. He must have died and this must be a post-animation dream of his subconscious. People don’t _do_ that. They don’t just _give up_ a terribly large portion of their desires just to satisfy someone else.

“You’re not just _someone_ ,” John said softly, patting down the wrapping and chuckling at Sherlock’s wide eyes of astonishment. “No, you didn’t say anything; but it doesn’t take a genius to assume what you were thinking.”

John stood and ruffled Sherlock’s hair as he headed to the stairs up to his room, “I’m going to take a shower, all right? We can talk about all the logistics when I’m done if you’d like.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and fixed it back to where it belonged and watched with wide eyes as John smiled at him then turned up the stairs to fetch his clothes. Morphine pulled on his eyelids as he stood and dragged the chairs back to their proper place at the table. He shook his head as he thought about how the drug sapped the energy right from his system. He’d only had a _swallow_ ; surely his tolerance hadn’t depleted _that_ much since he’d met the steadfast doctor.

A slight misstep made him rethink that notion as he had to catch himself on John’s plaid chair. The medicine began to make his head swim and his thoughts became putty in his skull. _Christ, are you SURE that was just morphine?_

Nope. He was dreaming. He had actually been shot by that idiot or perhaps he had actually plummeted to his death and now his subconscious was somehow still attached and was making up fantasies for him. That’s the only way _any_ of this was true. But perhaps it wasn’t _all_ bad.

He rubbed tenderly at his shoulder and silently walked into his room, unknowingly leaving his door wide open. He allowed himself a small smile as he sat down on his bed and pressed the hand that John had kissed to his lips and sighed.

 _John is just like that_ , he thought with a smile as he heard the patter of John’s footsteps and the shower start up on the other side of his personal bathroom door. _John fixes things; that’s what he does._

 _Maybe he can even fix_ you.

 

***

 

John ruffled the towel over his head and slipped on his sleep trousers before tossing it in the hamper and stepping into Sherlock’s room after seeing the door open and inviting, running a hand over his damp hair.

“I suppose you’re going to have to-”

He immediately clapped his hand over his mouth to prevent any further disturbances in the air as his eyes fell upon the crumpled form on the bed. The tall detective faced him, completely unconscious and with his legs still hanging off the bed as if he’d simply fallen asleep sitting up and gravity had taken its toll on his body. John smiled sweetly as the other man sighed softly in his sleep and his nose twitched into a scowl before falling lax again as he shifted onto his back, unconsciously lifting his left leg onto the mattress, his entire body on top of the duvet.

“You great idiot,” John mumbled without malice as he padded over to the detective and ran a hand through the dark curls. The action elicited no reaction and John rolled his eyes. _Once you’re out, you are OUT._

“Sherlock,” he pressed, gently rubbing the man’s uninjured shoulder. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get you under those covers, shall we?” John patted the muscular shoulder and finally provoked a reaction from his companion: a _snore_.

John could barely contain his laughter as he shifted on his hip and crossed his arms over his chest. Once upon a time, he had believed this man to be an unending ball of energy contained in a mechanical body that required no sustenance or recharging. How strange it still seemed to have first-hand experience that that was simply _not_ the case. These things that made Sherlock _human_ were so… _sweet_. He almost felt honored to be privy to them and he caressed the man’s cheek with a calloused hand.

“Sherlock, come on- wake up for just a second.” Contrary to his wishes, the detective only nestled his cheek against John’s palm and sighed as John rolled his eyes. “You know what? Fine. Be that way.”

John quietly walked to the foot of Sherlock’s bed and began to tug the covers out from underneath his heavy frame whilst the detective did _absolutely nothing_ to help the process. Deft fingers, after much strenuous tugging and pulling, finally bunched the fabric up and slowly maneuvered it from beneath his friend and collected it a little to his side.

“Come on, you git,” John mumbled as he slipped back to the side of the bed Sherlock was occupying, wrapping his hands around the surprisingly thin ankles and pulling them up onto the bed to straighten out his frame. As John gently wrapped his friend in the warm blankets, hazy cat eyes fluttered open and creased as they attempted to focus on the doctor.

“John?”

John chuckled as he looked down at Sherlock’s face and he ran a palm over the dark curls, “Of course you’d wait till I was done, you arse. Yes, I’m right here.”

John couldn’t contain his smile as the eyes closed again and a sleep-warmed palm gently pulled at his wrist.

“ _Stay.”_

He crinkled his nose, “What?”

The was gentle pressure on his wrist as the detective turned on his side and scooted back on his bed as if making room for John in front of him. His choice became very clear as the fingers began to fall lax around his wrist and Sherlock’s breath slowly fell into infrequent swallows of air. John smiled as he pulled the elegant finger to his lips, “Okay.”

He bent forward and lifted the duvet just enough so that he could slip beneath it and his heart burned as he settled into the spot that had just been warmed by Sherlock’s sleeping body. The pillow he rested his cheek on was doused in a perfume of Sherlock’s spiced shampoo and the sweet scent of his skin and John swallowed it gratefully; his head beginning to swim with the intoxication of such a situation. He’d wanted to warm the detective’s bed since not long after he had met the man and actually being given the permission to do so gave him a heady feeling.

The doctor gasped as he suddenly felt a terribly warm arm slip between his arm and chest, gripping his pectoral and pulling him close to his own chest behind him. For a moment, John couldn’t breathe. He had certainly died and his mind was playing tricks of him, because this was too _perfect_. He sighed sinfully as he felt the unfamiliar chill of the detective’s breath on the nape of his neck and his nose nuzzling in his hair.

“ _John_.”

The steadfast doctor’s eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the sweetness of the situation and he pressed his back into Sherlock’s chest until he could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat pound against his own in his chest.

He smiled as the curious fingertips whispered nonsensical lines and circles on his bare chest and a dark hum resonated from behind him.

He smiled as the though crossed his mind again: Sherlock was a _furnace_. The man’s chest practically burned against John’s back and his hands felt like they’d been warmed by a fresh cup of tea; it was _wonderful_. John couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so safe and warm and absolutely content.

Was this how women normally felt as they slept with their husbands? Normally, being the masculine segment of the relationship, John never partook in the “Little Spoon” position, but he was quickly finding that he enjoyed it quite a bit. The detective’s knees bent a bit at the back of his and caused him to curl back on him, pressing their bodies even closer together. He smiled and nestled his cheek into the warm pillow. Was this what it meant to be _secure?_ _Protected?_ John had always been the _protector_ so this _protected_ nonsense was strange in fascinating territory. _What an invigorating sensation…_

He placed his palm over the back of Sherlock’s hand and pressed it flat against his pectoral, enjoying the sleepy mumbling from behind his head. God, he _loved_ this man. The was a moment of adorable whining as the detective stretched behind him and resituated himself like a limpet to John’s back and the doctor couldn’t contain the affection and joy burning in his chest.

These little _human_ moments- Sherlock stretching like a lazy teenager; the delectable soft snore; the way his ankles rubbed together as he lost consciousness- they were all so perfect and John reveled in his contact with the detective as he closed his eyes.

Wasn’t his life so strange, so odd, so… _delightful?_

 

***

 

 _That’s… interesting_.

John’s dreams- for the first time in his life- failed to stand up to the beauty of his reality, so John wasn’t surprised when he woke up content and heart-achingly _happy_ , but he _was_ stunned to find that he was hard as a _rock_ and that the burn of arousal warmed in the base of his spine in throughout his chest.

Suddenly, he found the reason.

Warm lips respired heated air on his ear as the man behind exhaled a sinful moan, causing the doctor to respond in kind as he felt stiff muscles rock against his backside and a large hand press against his chest. He tilted his head back and was greeted with plush moisture against his neck, sending shivers down his spine as he felt the detective’s heavy heartbeat against his shoulders _. Oh._ _Oh, this is lovely._

Had the detective finally overcome his fear of intimacy? _That seemed a little fast_ , John thought, his breath marking time with Sherlock’s gentle thrusts against him. His jaw dropped as the hand splayed on his pectoral travelled slowly to the base of his abdomen and pressed his body back into the detective’s. Sweet lips sucked tenderly at his neck and shoulder and he couldn’t help but exhale a gentle moan of happiness for the detective’s new found intimacy. _No one’s lips should be that soft. I wonder how they taste…_

“Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered into the air, pressing his companion’s hand into his skin and rocking towards it. The man groaned wickedly behind him as his fingertips bit into John’s belly and his hips shifted into his. John decided to try his luck and lifted his thigh slightly, pressing his backside into the detective to allow him more access which the detective seemed to take advantage of immediately; his warm hardness pressing into the cleft of John’s arse.

He exhaled in a smile as the man behind him pressed his lips against John’s ear and a hot tongue lapped tenderly at his skin; whispering cool breath against the dampness of his kisses and submersing John in a plethora of intense sensations.

Suddenly, there was a quiet hum and it struck John _just_ the wrong way. _Wait just a moment… Sherlock, are you…?_

“Sherlock?”

There was no answer.

John’s cheeks flushed and he blinked as he tried to figure out if his suspicions were correct.

“Sherlock? Are you… are you awake?”

There was a light moan behind him and lips continued to travel up his neck, but there never was a conscious answer and butterflies filled John’s gut.

Sherlock was _asleep._ Absolutely, entirely _unconscious_ and John was the doll he utilized for in his erotic dreams. Well, that was certainly a new one for the books.

“Ah,” the detective breathed against his skin as he continued to rock into him, sending chills through John’s spine until the concept struck his mind. _What if he doesn’t want this? Oh God, am I helping him violate himself? Can you do that? Oh Christ._

 _“_ Sherlock, wake up,” John said sternly but softly, patting his forearm where it pressed against his waist. “Sherlock, love, come on.”

There was the cool air of a soft inhalation of consciousness and the detective rubbed his nose against the back of John’s neck before he suddenly stilled and John could practically feel the heat radiate from Sherlock’s cheeks. The doctor virtually heard the cogs in his companion’s brain springing back to life and could sense as the detective became aware of every part of the situation they were in at the moment.

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide and his heart began to patter in his chest. _Oh God, Oh God. How did this even happen? Was I seriously rutting up against him like a bloody animal? Oh Christ, does he think I- Oh God, does this count as rape? Oh Christ, am I no better than that deplorable excuse for a human being? Oh dear God. Now you’ve done it, you IDIOT._

He suddenly jerked himself away from John’s body slapped his hand onto his face, dragging it down to cover his mouth as his entire body flushed with shame and embarrassment, “John, my God, I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t- Oh God-”

“Shhh, don’t be upset,” John soothed, gently turning over in the bed so that he was facing the distraught detective. He lifted a hand and cupped his cheek as the detective shook his head.

“I apologize if that was not something you desired,” he mumbled terribly quickly, his words accelerating with nerves. “I didn’t mean- I’m- Oh Christ-”

There were suddenly warm lips against his neck, abruptly ending Sherlock’s rambling. John lifted himself slightly on his elbow, pressing himself into the detective and looking down into his eyes wide with shock. He pressed a kiss to his cheek and then let his lips suck on Sherlock’s earlobe just as the man had done to him just moments prior.

“Don’t be sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered, the cool of his breath on the dampness of his kiss giving Sherlock goose bumps. “I _love_ it.” Sensing the detective’s hardness shrinking against him, John pressed him down into the mattress and swung one leg over his hips, pressing himself against the detective as he straddled him and eliciting a shocked gasp as the detective tilted his head back at the contact.

“I will never tell you not to touch me,” John promised against Sherlock’s neck, causing the man beneath him to lift his hips into John’s searching for friction. “I just wanted to make sure _you_ wanted it. You can’t exactly give consent if you’re unconscious, you know.”

Sherlock moaned lightly as John rocked his hips against him and he turned his face to catch a glimpse of John’s expression. The navy eyes were rings around the pupils dilated with longing and lust and his heart thrummed enough that Sherlock could count his pulse just by looking at his throat. There was no question of whether his unconscious fondling had been to the doctor’s liking and that fact settled his anticipation some.

“Ah!” Sherlock gasped as John sucked gently underneath his jaw and cupped the back of his head as he did so.

“You are so beautiful,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s neck, pressing kisses down until he hit the prominent collarbone which he proceeded to caress with his warm tongue as if Sherlock was some lolly of his favorite flavor.

Then the thought finally hit him. He wasn’t _afraid_. John had said that he was going to make him feel whole and good and safe and at that moment in time, Sherlock felt _all_ those things. The man who had assaulted him had pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s skin and it had made it formicate with disgust, but as John did it- as _John_ pressed tender kisses to his pale skin, Sherlock felt nothing but affection and desire.

“Touch me, John,” he stated quietly, causing John to lift his head to meet his eyes.

“Are you sure?” John questioned, his brow parenthesizing the dark navy orbs. “We don’t have to do that yet if you’re not comfortable.”

Sherlock rocked his hips against John’s; prompting the doctor to flutter his eyes shut and gulp before he could look back at the sharp cat eyes. He could still see the hesitation in them, but he was terribly relieved to find that same sense of danger and determination that he had fallen in love with lighting the cerulean blue irises that seemed pale silver in the dark of the night.

“I…” Sherlock started but seemed not sure where to go next with his sentence. “I want you to touch me, John. I want to know what you mean by being… _loved_.”

John’s smile sparked another fire of affection in the detective’s chest and he could feel the excitement radiate from John’s skin.

“We need a safe-word,” John stated plainly, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Something not sexual whatsoever so I know if I need to stop.”

“I won’t want you to stop,” Sherlock said softly, furrowing his brow. _Did John really think he was just going to let him get close to climax then tell John to forget it? That seemed rude._

“You might,” John said honestly, shrugging a shoulder causing the duvet they were still under to slip down to his clothed hips. “We haven’t been this intimate yet, it might frighten you.”

“But I won’t-”

“Humor me, will you?” John pressed with a cocked brow, earning Sherlock’s rolled eyes.

“What about ‘No’?” Sherlock queried sarcastically earning him a glare from the doctor.

“I’m sure you can be more imaginative than that,” John teased, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple. “It needs to be something that you normally wouldn’t say during sex.”

“People say no during sex and don’t mean it?” Sherlock asked incredulously, furrowing his brow. _That didn’t make sense._

John sighed and chewed his lip, “Well, I _mean_ \- um. Would you just _work_ with me, you stubborn arse?”

Sherlock sighed and lifted his hand to cup around John’s neck as he debated. _Something non-sexual that you wouldn’t say during sex. What do people SAY during sex? Isn’t it just supposed to be animalistic grunts and moans? Christ, how did you get this old without exploring this territory?_ “Mirror.”

John stiffened above him and pursed his lips, “Are you sure, Sherlock? That’s um… a little tender, don’t you think?”

“Will it make you stop?”

John nodded fervently, “Immediately.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Then it works.”

John raised his eyebrows and inhaled with a nod of his head, “That’ll do then.” He then pressed his hips against Sherlock’s and let his lips massage Sherlock’s ear, “Sherlock Holmes, I am going to make you feel like you have never felt before and as long as you let me, this will only be the _beginning_.”

Sherlock swallowed and pressed his hand to John’s chest, just above his heart, and mumbled quietly, “I trust you.”

John smiled against his skin and pressed a gentle kiss to it, “I won’t betray that, Sherlock.”

Their hips rocked together as John pressed his lips down Sherlock’s neck and lifted his other hand to wrap around the small of Sherlock’s back and hold him to him. _God, he is beautiful_. Sherlock seemed to deicide to test his boundaries and delicately lifted his hands to grip at John’s waist, pressing their bodies even closer.

“You are wonderful,” John sighed against Sherlock’s collarbone, sucking it enough to elicit sensual sensations, but not enough to bruise. “You are brilliant and beautiful and bright.”

Sherlock’s chest flushed and John could only imagine the blush that painted the detective’s cheeks, but resolved not to look in case he’d embarrass the man. His hand slipped up from Sherlock’s hip and wrapped around his thin chest as his tongue lapped at Sherlock’s fair skin until he hit a tender knob on his chest.

“Ah!” Sherlock cried out, his head pressing back against the pillow as John’s mouth sucked and ran over his nipple, causing John to smile against his skin in triumph. He groaned as he pressed his hips against Sherlock’s again and the sensations of the cool air and the vibrations of his voice caused his eyes to roll back in his head and his fingertips to bite into John’s muscular shoulder blades, “ _John_.”

“You are magnificent,” John murmured against his skin, switching sides of his chest and running the tip of his tongue over the other knob. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s mind swam with emotions and sensations and he could barely keep his thoughts in coherent order. Was he supposed to be complimenting John back? Was that how this worked? That couldn’t be that hard.

“John, you are- ah!” Sherlock’s attempt as reciprocation was cut short by John’s fingertips running over the bulge in his sleep trousers and the feeling sent his neurons into a tizzy. No one had ever been so gentle and kind in their ministrations to his body, and most certainly not _there_.

“J-John, you’re…” His mind became white as a warm hand gripped him and began to massage at his glans.

“I know,” John teased softly as his lips traced back up his lover’s neck and beneath his jaw. “I will never let you forget how wonderful you are, Sherlock.” True, the detective’s ego didn’t necessarily need bolstering in the normal sense, but in _this_ arena, the one where he felt most vulnerable and insecure, John was determined to carve his affections into Sherlock’s mind so that they were never forgotten.

Sherlock whined as John’s hand slipped beneath his trousers and cupped his manhood, caressing the glans like a seasoned veteran. Skin on skin. This was the closest he had ever been to the good doctor and his chest could barely contain his-

 _Just pretend it’s John. You’ve wanted that for how long_?

He exhaled sharply as the memory knocked the wind from his lungs and his gut concaved in disgust. _No. No. You are done with this._

“Mi-Mm-” he stammered as he pinched his eyes shut. _No. You are FINE. Stop being such a child. This is JOHN. He won’t hurt you. You HAVE wanted this that long, so TAKE it. He is more than willing to give it to you._ “M- _more,_ ” he finally forced out, lifting up his head to catch John’s ear in his lips, causing the man above him to moan sinfully in response.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Long fingers traced John’s waist until his fingertips slipped beneath his waistband and gripped the throbbing muscle that pressed against him as he heard a strange curse above him.

“Oh f-fuck!”

Sherlock jerked open his eyes and searched John for any signs of discomfort before the man chuckled and pressed a kiss to his cheek with lidded eyes, “You haven’t done anything wrong- ah! Fuck!” John cried out Sherlock traced his thumb over the slit, dampening his fingertips with pre-ejaculate.

Sherlock smirked, _The oh-so-calm and collected John Watson cursed as he was pleasured. How interesting._

“Sherlock, you are stunning,” John breathed against Sherlock’s ear just before emitting a whine that sent Sherlock bucking up into John’s hand.

“Tell me what you like,” John purred softly against Sherlock’s neck, causing him to groan and extend his long neck for John’s sampling. “I want to know what you want.”

“You,” Sherlock said honestly, his eyes still closed as John’s palm slicked against his head and ran down his shaft. “You, you, you, John.”

The doctor chuckled and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s temple, smiling, “That’s nice to know, but you already have me. Entirely, completely, and wholly. I want to know how you like to feel.”

He attempted to reciprocate the sensation John gave him by taking his free hand and raking his fingertips across the hard nubs on the soldier’s strong chest prompting him to whimper into Sherlock’s curls. “John,” Sherlock hummed as he could feel the spring of his impending release coiling in the base of his spine. Was this what loved felt like? If so, he could _finally_ understand why people killed and died for it. This was beautiful and wonderful and filling and he felt like it was not enough and then far too much all at the same time. John was magnificent. A beacon of Apollo’s light, the personification of Aphrodite’s touch, and in his hands he wielded the strength of Zeus. _Oh!_

He gasped as John’s palm pressed against him and gave him a tight ring slicked with his own bodily fluids to penetrate. Oh, he most _certainly_ liked _that_.

“Let me hear you,” he finally gasped, his breath coming in pants as perspiration began to collect at his brow. “I want to know- oh! John!- I- oh- I want to know you’re s-s-satis-” Perhaps his brain wasn’t competent enough to handle three syllable words anymore. That was _odd._

John apparently needed no encouragement and groaned sinfully against Sherlock’s chest as the detective copied John’s hand formation around the doctor’s sex. He tipped his tongue against the hard nipple as his free hand cupped around Sherlock’s neck and twisted his fingers in the curls. Every stunted thrust through Sherlock’s fist was punctuated with a growl that brought Sherlock closer and closer to the edge until he could no longer speak and only had the wits to cry out as he spilled his seed into John’s hand, surprised to find the heat magnified in his own palm as John pressed his mouth into Sherlock’s neck and moaned, pulling Sherlock closer to him as he pulsed in the detective’s hand.

White filled his vision and sounds permeated through the air as a pleasure Sherlock had never before known seeped into every cell in his body; endorphins raging through his system. _Was he breathing?_ He couldn’t quite tell. _Had he said something?_ Perhaps- his mouth seemed to like to run on without his knowledge when it came to John.

The doctor in question felt adoration and affection burn through his entire system as he trembled to keep himself above the detective, even as every muscle in his body ached with a desire for more contact. As soon as he caught his breath, he tasted the salt on Sherlock’s neck and traced his lips up to his lover’s temple. “Sherlock. My Sherlock, you are wonderful.”

That struck an odd chord in the detective’s mind. Had anyone ever _claimed_ him? Had anyone ever _wanted_ to stake a claim on Sherlock Holmes- the sociopath- the _freak_? His chest warmed and he slipped his hand out from underneath John to wrap around him before he remembered that it was saturated with John’s ejaculate. He thinned his lips as he furrowed his brow. He had never done this with another human being before. What was the proper procedure? Was John going to fall asleep on him and sandwich their seed between them? That sounded… disgusting. God, he hoped that wasn’t John’s game plan.

John chuckled as he caught Sherlock’s scowl in the corner of his eye and delicately leaned back off of Sherlock’s body, slipping to his wobbly feet as he padded to the bathroom and wet a pair of flannels in the sink. Sherlock’s relief was evident in his sigh. _Lovely, John had some savoir faire in this department._ He didn’t hear the doctor approach him again and was startled to feel warmth pressed against his lower waist so he looked up to see that the doctor had taken care of himself in the loo and was now tending to Sherlock’s needs. _How… considerate._

“I love you, Sherlock,” John stated proudly as Sherlock lifted his clean hand to cup his cheek and force their eyes to meet. God, he wanted nothing more than to kiss those lips and bruise them with affection, but he thought he might explode from sensual input should he attempt to do so.

Instead, he pulled John’s head to his and pressed his lips to John’s salted forehead, whispering against the skin, “I love you, John.”

John chuckled and then Sherlock realized that the doctor was completely _nude_ , “You might want to take those off- they’re kind of…”

Sherlock grimaced as he felt the slick of ejaculate against his waist as he shifted his hips, “Disgusting?”

John smiled and shrugged, “You could say that. Let me grab you some more.” He turned his head to vacate the bed again until Sherlock grabbed his wrist, causing him to turn back in confusion. John was startled to see Sherlock’s pupils still blown wide and his face soft and sweet.

“I want…” Sherlock mumbled, pulling John’s hand to his bare chest and averting his eyes. “I want to feel you when I sleep. I like the way your skin feels on mine.”

John’s half-lidded eyes creased in a happy grin as he pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s temple, “My sentiments exactly.”

Unsure of what to do next, Sherlock shimmied out of his trousers and pants and found himself completely vulnerable and at John’s mercy; a sensation he was still trying to get comfortable with. John seemed to notice a bit of bodily fluid that he had missed with the flannel that he had tossed on the ground next to his bed, but seemed to find another way of cleaning it.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock cried out as he felt warm lips press against the base of his penis and a soft tongue collecting the tiny dab of ejaculate that had accumulated there. John raised his eyes and met Sherlock’s who felt a strange sense of pride and affection for the man whose mouth was dangerously close to his genitals. Was he supposed to like that? There was something oddly masculinizing about John taking his own DNA into his body as if it _wanted_ it there and his stomach did a flip. _Why was all of this so confusing?_

Suddenly, the warmth descended and he felt the tug of John’s lips around his flaccid member, apparently licking it clean of anything that had been left there. The sensation was almost too much and even though he was terribly sensitive at the moment, he couldn’t help but buck into John’s mouth; his eyes fluttering closed.

John hummed and laid his tongue flat on Sherlock’s sex before sucking it clean and pulling himself up to lay on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder, “That should feel better.”

 _Well,_ Sherlock thought as he heart pattered in his chest and his arms wrapped possessively around the short man, _John isn’t wrong._

“Do you like that?” He asked tracing his thumb over the warm bottom lip that had kissed his entire body that evening.

John smiled and shut his eyes, jerking the duvet they had kicked down in their fervor back up to their chests, “I’ve never done it before, so I thought I’d try it.” He pressed a kiss to the bottom of Sherlock’s jaw and gently traced a nipple with his fingertips, forcing Sherlock to gasp in pleasure, “I might make a habit of it.”

Sherlock’s bare forearm pulled John’s naked form closer to his, “May I touch you?”

John hummed as he nodded against Sherlock’s damp chest, “Anywhere you like.”

The detective lifted a hesitant hand then laid it flat against John’s back, tracing the muscles and covered bones before finding the rise of John’s curved arse. John hummed and lifted his leg to rest over the bottom of Sherlock’s waist, allowing Sherlock complete access to his body.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Sherlock queried as he cupped the smaller man’s buttocks and pressed him against his own hip.

John smiled and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s pattering chest, “With my life.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily and hugged the man to him pressing a kiss to his brow. _No one has ever trusted YOU that much. They don’t trust you with your OWN life, much less theirs. This is something you CAN’T bollocks up._

John hummed against Sherlock’s neck as he nestled against his bare skin as he started to lose his consciousness, “How do you feel?”

Sherlock smiled and uttered words he never thought he would.

 

“ _Loved.”_


	14. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Explicit explanation of rape and crime and Severe Emotional Trauma due to Graphic violence

“He dies.”

John jerked his head up from his blue book and furrowed his brow, “Beg your-”

“The boy,” Sherlock stated plainly, slipping from his barstool in the kitchen and padding over towards refrigerator to deposit his newest fungal experiments. _Surely John won’t mind if they don’t have a lid._ “He dies. It’s obvious, John. He’s the only one without a current affliction at the beginning of the story and the book is renowned for causing adolescent tears. What else- Ah!”

Suddenly he cried out as the heavier-than-it-looked book nailed him square in the back of the head. He spun around and glared at the doctor who glared right back at him, rubbing tenderly at his scalp. _That was actually a really good shot._ “The _hell_ was that for?”

“You know,” John pouted, crossing his arms over his chest from where he perched on his knees backwards on his chair, “you _could_ actually let me get farther than two-hundred pages through something without spoiling it. It _is_ actually possible to do.”

“Why are you reading that rubbish _anyways_?” Sherlock scowled, rolling his eyes and dramatically checking his palm for blood he knew wasn’t there. “It was written for teenage _girls_ , not full-grown _men_. Read something age-appropriate!”

“It’s a _book_!” John moaned, gesturing irately at the blue hardback on the floor. “I _like_ books. I wanted to _read_ the book! And it’s labelled under ‘ _young adult’_ thank you-”

“Which you are _not-_ ”

“- _very much!”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and bent forward to pick up the offending text, tracing his fingers over the title, “You and your ridiculous obsession with raging balls of gas.”

John opened his mouth to holler something back before he looked at the book in Sherlock’s hands and then to the grinning man himself. He exhaled a soft laugh and began to chuckle at the stupidness of the entire situation, “You know what?”

“What?” Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin as he tucked the book in the crook of his arm as he padded over to John.

The doctor shrugged and smiled impishly, “Oh, I was just wondering if you knew anything. Suppose you don’t.”

Sherlock dropped his jaw in mock-offense and tossed the book back at its owner who caught it with the greatest of ease, “I know more than _you_.”

“No, you _profile_ ,” John retorted, spinning around in his seat and pulling up to his feet. “That’s _different_.”

Sherlock tutted from across the room and John cocked a brow at the detective’s shaking head, “You know, the green of envy is really a horrendous color on you.”

John laughed and rolled his eyes, resting the book down on his side table, “You are certainly lively today.” He suddenly narrowed his eyes at the detective, “What did you _do_?”

Sherlock couldn’t contain his smile, even as he tried to feign innocence, “Why must I have done something wrong in order to be in a good mood? Certainly one does not automatically precede the other.”

John thinned his lips and flicked his finger in accusation, “In your case, it normally does. Now fess up.”

Sherlock padded over to John and swooped him into an unexpected hug, “How did you sleep last night?”

John _oomfed_ with the embrace, but gently returned it and furrowed his brow at the detective, “Erm, fine I guess. Why do you-?”

“Where did you sleep?” Sherlock asked, jerking John from his body and gripping his shoulders.

John pursed his lips and started to spook at Sherlock’s oddness, “Last night? With… _you_ …? In _your_ bed…? Are you feeling-?”

“How long?”

“What?”

“Oh come now, John!” The detective hollered enthusiastically, slightly shaking the stunned doctor. “How long have we been sleeping in the same bed? Surely you haven’t been _that_ unobservant.”

John blinked and cocked an eyebrow as he searched the floor for an answer the detective would find satisfactory, “Um, well, I guess about a week. Yeah, Lestrade texted us about that case on a Thursday, so a week and a day. Why? What’s going on?”

“John, you simple man!” Sherlock boomed, shaking him by the shoulders. “Put it together! It’s been a week and you’ve slept at least eight hours per night for that week. _WHY?_ ”

John crinkled his nose. _Because you run me ragged, you bastard! But that couldn’t be the answer he’s looking for. He’s FAR too excited for that. What do you mean?_

John looked into the blazing blue eyes that creased in a genuine smile at him before searching the floor again, “I’ve been going to bed and staying asleep for eight days straight… _because_ …?”

“Think!” Sherlock demanded, jerking him again and causing the doctor to look up and meet his gaze with a stern glare. _What the hell are you going on about, you nutter?_ Suddenly, he spotted the lack of bruising around Sherlock’s cat eyes and his frown slowly morphed into a smile as he pieced it together.

“I’ve been sleeping with you… and throughout the night… because you haven’t been waking me up… because _you’re_ sleeping… and not having night _-_ _Sherlock!_ You haven’t been having nightmares!”

Sherlock nodded and wrapped the doctor in a warm embrace as he smiled against his neck, “Nine days, twelve hours, and thirteen minutes, John. I’ve had complete control over my mind for nine _entire_ days.”

John pulled back and beamed at the detective, “Sherlock, that-that’s _wonderful_! That’s- I’m- Sherlock, that’s _brilliant_!”

Sherlock released his shoulders and gestured to his temples, “John, I haven’t seen his face or heard his voice- John, I’m finally-”

John’s fingertips halted his speech and Sherlock looked down at the beaming man, “Don’t jinx it! Sherlock, I’m so happy I can’t- Sherlock, that’s magnificent!”

Sherlock smiled and kissed the fingertips before him, pulling down the hand and kissing John’s forehead with a sigh, “Thank you, John. Thank you so much.”

John shook his head and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders, providing his own shaking, “Sherlock, I didn’t have anything to do with that. That’s all _you_. _You_ stopped the nightmares. Sherlock, I’m so-” He interrupted himself with a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, “You brilliant man!”

“But John, you-”

John shook his head and pressed his hand to Sherlock’s lips again with an encouraging smile, “No, this victory is _all_ yours. We should- oh hell- we should celebrate or something!”

John’s excitement warmed Sherlock’s chest even more and he smiled sweetly as he cupped John’s cheek and pressed his lips to the other one, “Alright, then what?”

John pursed his lips and shrugged, “Dunno; hadn’t made it that far.”

Sherlock smiled against John’s skin and pressed his lips to John’s temple, “I think… I’d like to take you somewhere.”

The doctor grinned and his bright smile poured bright happiness into the room, “Sure! Where?”

 

***

 

“This wasn’t… _exactly_ what I had in mind.”

John frowned as he stepped out of the cab and was surprised that _Sherlock_ actually paid the faire.

_Highgate Cemetery. How… odd._

“Don’t be so dull, John,” Sherlock said with a smile, pulling out of the cab and taking his hand. “I want to show you something.”

For a Friday, the doctor thought that the famous cemetery was a little vacant. It was a renowned tourist spot, and since there was still a slight dusting of snow on everything, he’d have assumed there’d be a crowd here just to take pictures of the ancient tombstones.

“Sherlock, what is this all about?” John pressed, surprised that Sherlock continued to hold his hand as he dragged him through the walkways.

Sherlock turned and smiled, tucking his chin into his scarf as a gust of chilled wind struck them, “You’ll see; just stop complaining!”

John crinkled his nose and silently pouted. _I’m not COMPLAINING. I just want to know what we’re doing here. We’re supposed to be CELEBRATING, not visiting dead people._

They passed a small group of school children, who seemed enthralled with the terribly large Karl Marx grave, yet Sherlock’s tugging never faltered and John sighed; deciding that he was bound to follow the bloody detective _wherever_ he went- whether or not he had any idea why.

“You know, we _could_ walk around and _look_ at things while we’re here,” John suggested offhandedly, knowing that the detective was a force to be reckoned with when he was on a mission.

He nearly toppled the man over as Sherlock suddenly halted and looked up into the sky as if searching for some inspiration before smiling and shaking his head with bright cerulean eyes, “No.”

“Yeah, alright,” John sighed, rolling his eyes as Sherlock resumed tugging on his arm and leading him to the Circle of Lebanon. “Is there someone here you know? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“In a way,” Sherlock grinned, pulling John past the myriad of doorways that surrounded the large monument. A circle carved from stone and sparsely lined with heavy doors and inscribed names, the monument itself was a marvel to be seen, but Sherlock didn’t seem to be interested in any of the names; instead he continued to search the sky and the tops of the doorways until he seemed to find one that suited his fancy.

“Give me a lift,” he demanded, not looking John in the eye, but continuing to look into the sky.

John sputtered and crinkled his nose, “Give you a- are you _demented_?”

“You’re being tedious,” Sherlock replied, cocking a brow at the doctor who rolled his eyes and knelt down, cupping his hands in exasperation. He easily lifted the Detective and rubbed his hands on his jeans as the man pulled himself onto the awning above the doorway.

“You’re gonna get us _arrested_!” John hissed as he looked side to side for any witnesses to their trespassing.

“Oh come now, John,” Sherlock sighed, unraveling his scarf from around his neck and holding one end down to the short doctor. “Surely your worst fear isn’t Lestrade and his incompetent squad of talking monkeys?”

John puffed out his cheeks as he wrapped the fabric around his wrist and rolled his eyes, “You are an absolutely terrible influence. I’ll have you know I was a decent, upstanding member of society before I met you.”

Sherlock grunted as he pulled up and John used his feet to propel himself up to the awning before the cat eyes creased at him as he finally made it all the way up, “Yes and you’re so much more wonderful now.”

John’s cheeks heated as the detective turned and gripped the top side of the monument and pulled himself up, spinning around and extending a hand to the doctor who took it and struggled minutely to make the distance.

As John pulled himself over the awning, he was greeted with the sight of a colossal cedar tree that grew directly in the middle above the circle of tombs. It was a sight to behold and he smiled at the detective, “It’s beautiful, Sherlock. Does it mean something to you?”

The detective replied with a silent smile and stood to his feet, jerking John’s hand up as he did so. He walked the short distance before grabbing John’s shoulders and pressing his back against the tree. The tall detective loomed over John and he gulped as he felt warm lips press against the bottom of his jaw.

“Sherlock-”

“You keep asking me these mundane questions, John,” Sherlock hummed against John’s skin, pressing his body flush against the shorter man’s and kissing his cheek. “My favourite color, smell; terribly useless information, but I wanted to save you the time of asking me this.”

John cocked a brow as Sherlock pulled away and he looked around, “Your favourite… _place_?”

Sherlock shook his head and smiled, “Do you trust me, John?”

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, searching for any signs of mischievous intentions before nodding, “You know I do.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled just before John’s vision was overcome by deep royal blue as his companion’s scarf was tied around his head.

“Um, Sherlock?”

“Shhh,” the detective commanded, pulling John forward just a bit and sliding himself between the doctor and the tree. John gasped as he felt hot lips press against his chilled neck and warm arms wrap around his torso, squeezing gently before he heard a whisper in his ear. “Sit.”

John bent with his knees until he could feel the ground he couldn’t see with his fingertips and did as requested, finding that he was suddenly leaning back against Sherlock’s chest. Long arms embraced his torso again and the detective hummed happily behind him.

“I don’t understand,” John admitted after a moment of silence, tilting his head towards the man behind him. “Am I supposed to be doing something?”

“ _Listen_ ,” Sherlock mumbled in his ear, pressing a quick kiss to it as he rested his cheek on John’s shoulder.

John did, but it didn’t seem as if there was anything remarkable to be heard, “I don’t hear anything.”

John could practically feel Sherlock roll his eyes, “That’s because you’re an idiot.”

John sniffed his derision and closed his eyes behind the soft blue fabric and inhaled deeply, attempting to set his mind at ease. Sherlock obviously wanted him to hear something spectacular that he needed to focus on, so he decided to try his best.

_What can you hear? Rustling trees, murmurs of a few straggling tourists, the hum of wind, crickets or something like that, some kind of bird calling in the distance, Sherlock’s soft breathing against your skin, children giggling a little ways away, you can sort of hear the echo of London from here. It’s not nearly as loud and harsh as it is in the city, it’s rather… nice._

“It’s the sound of London,” Sherlock suddenly whispered against John’s skin, making him shiver. “It’s the sound of _life_. Curious that people only appreciate life when surrounded by death.”

 _That’s a bit… morbid._ John chuckled, “I suppose so. So what is this? Your favourite sound?”

There was a rustle of curls against John’s cheek as the detective nodded and hugged him tightly to his torso, “Can you hear it all, John? The contrast of this cemetery’s natural thrumming as opposed to the rushing heartbeat of the city? Can you feel it drum in your chest as well; a secondary heartbeat to your own, helping to keep you alive?”

John’s cheeks flushed with the cold and with the brutal authenticity that the detective was allowing him to see. This was how the brilliant man saw and felt things; no wonder he was so inspired by the seemingly pointless. He nodded and pressed Sherlock’s hands to his chest, “You are brilliant, Sherlock. How did you find this?”

He felt the detective smile against his skin and press a light kiss there, “When I was younger, I used to run away constantly. Everything was always so _loud_ at home and I needed to just surround myself with silence so I could _think_.” He shrugged, “Mycroft started to worry more and more that I wouldn’t return, so when I was twelve he brought me here - or _broke in_ is probably a more appropriate term- in the middle of the night, sat me down against this tree and told me to just _listen_.” John’s chest warmed as he felt Sherlock chuckle softly behind him, “At the time I thought he was mad. _‘I don’t hear anything, you idiot!_ ’ I can still remember his expression when he finally made it home a few hours after I stormed off. He seemed irritated with me, but not distressed like he normally would have been and it didn’t make sense. So I started coming here on my own just to _listen_. It’s wonderful. It’s silent and yet full of life. Secretive and yet inviting.”

John sighed and leaned his head back against the detective’s shoulder, “As much as I hate to say it, your brother actually _isn’t_ the worst human being to walk the Earth.”

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, “No, but it is rather entertaining to pretend he is. He always makes the funniest faces when he gets exasperated.”

The doctor laughed and smiled, inhaling the scents of grass, cedar, and the spiced fragrance of the man behind him.

 _“Perfect,”_ he heard whispered behind him as if the detective hadn’t actually meant to say it out loud.

“What is?”

“Shhh,” Sherlock insisted, lifting his hands from John’s chest and placing one palm over John’s covered eyes. “Close your eyes until I tell you otherwise.”

“You are terribly bossy,” John remarked, keeping his eyes closed as he heard a few of the children in the distance squeal with delight.

Suddenly the cloth was slipped away from his eyes and the cool of winter splashed against his skin making him gasp softly. He felt the scarf the being wrapped around his own neck and gently flattened with large palms before Sherlock’s soft baritone whispered, “ _Open_.”

Navy eyes slowly opened and as they focused on his surroundings, the man smiled and huffed his excitement, “Sherlock! This is- it’s beautiful!”

White fluff fell from the skies and began to dust the trees and monuments around them, giving them an oddly luminescent shine. He could feel the ice catch on his lashes as he looked up into the monstrous tree above them to see the bright white sky of winter beaming down at them.

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Sherlock hummed against John’s skin as the doctor laughed happily.

“Who wouldn’t?” He asked honestly, holding out his hand and catching a snowflake that immediately melted against his skin.

Suddenly that hand was engulfed with Sherlock’s larger, gloved one that entwined fingers with his. He settled their joined hands against his chest and sighed, leaning back against Sherlock with a smile, “I love you.”

“I know,” Sherlock mumbled back, tucking his head in the crook of John’s shoulder. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“Good,” John hummed back, closing his eyes and allowing himself to just absorb everything around them. It was perfect and he couldn’t be happier with their little moment of serenity.

 

“That’s… That’s really good…”

 

***

 

“John, you’re all right. Shhh,” Sherlock hummed as he ran his hand over the short blonde head on his chest.

He hadn’t been sleeping yet; although, he had to admit that while John occupied his bed, he had found more time for the monotonous chore. No, he’d been deciding how he was going to approach his newest experiment on fungus now that John had inadvertently thrown out his samples, so when the doctor began to furrow his brow and whine against his chest, Sherlock knew immediately that something was amiss.

“I’ve got you, love,” he mumbled, his hand cupping the nape of John’s neck and his lips pressing into his crown. “You’re all right.”

He suddenly hissed as nails clenched against his bare chest and dragged across the skin towards John’s face. Sherlock jerked his companion’s hand from his skin, preventing any future bleeding as the doctor’s face pressed into his pectoral, his breathing coming in pants- hot and heavy against Sherlock’s skin.

“John,” he pressed, placing John’s hand against his chest and rubbing gently at his upper arm, “John, wake up. You’re fine, just wake up.”

There was a high-pitched whine and Sherlock looked down to see the doctor’s face pinching in pain and his teeth bared as if he were about to weep. Clothed knees bent against his thigh as John pulled them up in his sleep and John’s fisted hand splayed back out over Sherlock’s chest as he cried nonsense into his friend’s pectoral.

“ _Ah_ ,” John moaned, shaking his head slightly in his sleep. He hummed miserably and Sherlock began to pat his cheek, desperate to mollify him somehow.

“Come now, John; wake up.”

He was terribly surprised to feel the warm sting of tears against his chest as the doctor’s entire body began to tremble and his breathing was only barely more than gasps of oxygen. Every muscle seemed to be working overtime against some assailant Sherlock was not privy to and his companion’s body quivered with the energy of tensing his body.

“ _No_ ,” John gasped, shaking his head and pinching his brow.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock begged, raking his hand through the damp sandy hair, “You’re fine just wake up.”

There was a sharp inhalation and stunted holler as the doctor jerked up in the bed and swallowed gawkily at the air. He pinched his eyes tight and swallowed with a dry mouth until his gut clenched and he tried to force himself off of the mattress, but was only successful in throwing himself to the floor.

“John!”

Sherlock was at his side immediately and was heartbroken to find John struggling with a swimming head to get back to his feet; his head bobbing as his fatigue attacked his system. He gagged and Sherlock wrapped one of John’s arms around his shoulder, half-carrying the man into the bathroom and depositing him at the toilet before being exposed to a Technicolor yawn that wracked John’s entire frame.

 _Dear God._ Sherlock had been so excited to be nightmare-free for an entire week, but even _he’d_ not had anything like _this_. Was this what _always_ happened to John? Who would sentence such a wonderful human to such an awful fate? _John most certainly didn’t deserve this._ No, this was dreadful, and it broke Sherlock’s heart to see his blogger spitting into the loo before his head lolled back to the side and he limply slipped to a crumpled mess on the floor.

“Christ, John!” Sherlock spat as he gripped the man’s torso from behind and sat him up straight, his hand pressing flat against John’s clammy brow and keeping him upright. “John? Can you hear me?”

The doctor in question swallowed with a groan and his breathing began to settle as his eyelids bounced while he tried to focus on consciousness.

“John, you’re all right,” Sherlock promised, kissing his lover’s cheek as he crinkled his nose at the acidic breath.

“Sh’lock?” John mumbled, still half out of his wits and his head nodding back on Sherlock’s shoulder.

The detective nodded and slicked back his friend’s hair with the sweat that had collected on his brow, “I’m right here, John. You’re safe.”

“D-don’t die, Sh’lock,” John begged pitifully, his chin dipping into his own chest. “Not in front of me… _please_ not in front of me.”

That sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine and he shook his head, “I won’t. I’m safe, you needn’t fret.”

John suddenly lunged forward and hacked into the bowl again, this time producing nothing but ill feelings and slumped back against Sherlock with a moan, “Please don’t. Please, please, please don’t.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Sherlock assured him with a kiss to his temple. “John, nothing is wrong. I’m all right, I promise.” He continued to brush John’s hair back and mollify him with soft murmurings of comfort as the doctor regained his cognizance and finally mustered the strength to sit up on his own.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled, sitting forward and pressing his face into his palms.

Sherlock’s pursed his brow and shook his head, his hand warm on John’s shoulder blade, “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re all right.”

“I didn’t mean- oh _Christ_ ,” John cried before he hunched forward and wrapped himself tight into a ball away from his friend.

Sherlock scooted forward and raked a hand over the damp hair as he tilted his head towards John, “John, is that how your nightmares always are? If so, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

John shook his head weakly and hiccupped into his arm, “No, I just- it’s not usually this bad. Normally I can remind myself what’s real and what’s not, but- I couldn’t- Christ, Sherlock, it was so _real_.” His muscles stiffened and he shook his head, keeping his face from Sherlock’s sight. “We were chasing someone through a warehouse of some sort and I accidentally shot you when you jumped in front of him. You were bleeding and crying and _screaming_ and your blood, I- it was _everywhere_ and I couldn’t-” he covered his mouth and swallowed down the bit of bile still left in his stomach with a grimace, “I could feel it on my hands and in my clothes and it was _my fault_. It was sticky and warm and your eyes- Christ your eyes. It was like watching your beautiful life just get snuffed out like a candle and I tried so hard to bring you back, but you kept _screaming_ and I just- I just,” he clapped his hands over his ears as if trying to drown out the nonexistence noise and bared his teeth in a sob.

“Shhh,” Sherlock breathed, his hand sliding from John’s forehead back to his shoulder blades, “You’re all right.” He gently pried one of John’s hands from his head and placed it flat against his bare chest over his heart. “I’m right here; no wounds, see? You keep me safe, John. You’ve never hurt me and you won’t now. Just breathe.”

John smiled mirthlessly and shook his head, turning so that his eyes rested on his hand against Sherlock’s chest, “And here you were finally getting better and now I’ve gone and bollixed it up again. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Stop it,” he demanded, causing John’s wet eyes to flick up to his stern ones. “You’ve done nothing wrong. What would you say to me if our roles were reversed?”

John furrowed his brown and shrugged, “Yes, well they’re not-”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock warned with a cocked brown that earned him an exasperated sigh from the doctor.

“I’m not fighting with you,” John mumbled, slowly dragging his hand away from Sherlock’s chest and back to his own and tucking his face back into his arms. “Just leave me alone.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. _That was odd. John never wanted him to just “leave him alone”._ “John, I’m sure-”

“Just _go_ , would you?” John snapped, his entire body tensing up. “It’s two letters, G-O! S-surely you can _deduce_ what they mean!”

Sherlock flushed as if he’d just been slapped and cowered back. _Wasn’t he doing what he was supposed to do? Surely he hadn’t done anything drastically wrong because he practically copied what JOHN did. Why was John so angry with him? What was he SUPPOSED to have done?_ “Oh… um, alright.” He looked sadly into the tile before pushing himself up and quietly closing the door behind him.

He puffed out his cheeks as he padded out into the sitting area and sat on the couch with a sigh. _What had he done wrong? He was just trying to help, surely John could see that._

“Idiot,” he mumbled to himself, shaking his head and resting his forehead in his hand. He heard the squeak of the taps running and the toilet flushing and suddenly heard the hushed whisper of bare feet against the carpet. His lifted his gaze and watched as John walked over and sat next to him on the couch, smelling of mint and soap.

“Should I-?” Sherlock questioned before John shook his head.

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he sighed, lowering his head to stare at the ground. “I just don’t… I normally don’t have an audience.”

Sherlock lifted his head in understanding. _John was EMBARRASSED. He didn’t want Sherlock to think him weak so he lashed out. That made SO much more sense._

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” Sherlock tried, not sure he actually knew what he was talking about. “It’s- um- it’s all right.”

John shook his head and placed it in his palms, muffling his voice, “I’m not. I just don’t like advertising that I’m mental.” Sherlock snorted and earned a glare form the doctor who cocked a brow in irritation at his friend’s amusement, “ _What_?”

Sherlock laughed and leaned back against the couch with a smile, “You have a flatmate who experiments on human remains and chases down criminals as an alternative to getting high and you think _you’re_ mental? Please John, don’t make me laugh.”

John lowered his gaze as he chuckled quietly and leaned forward against Sherlock’s chest with a sigh, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I always am.”

“Don’t push it,” John commanded sternly as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him and held him tightly, dispelling any fears of his death from John’s mind. _Sherlock is right here. He’s fine, stop being such a child_.

He hummed as he felt a warm palm press his short hair back and he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

“I forbid you from saying that any longer,” Sherlock demanded sternly earning him a chuckle from the doctor.

“Do you now?”

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss into the sandy hair, “Yes, John Watson, you are no longer allowed to say superfluous phrases that have no business escaping your lips.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s bare skin, “Oh, should I just not speak at all then?”

“If you are unable to contain yourself.”

John rolled his eyes, “Bastard.”

So Sherlock responded in kind, “Idiot.”

John chuckled and scrubbed at his face like an adolescent boy. Sherlock pressed against his shoulders until he sat up and the detective retreated back to his room and returned a moment later with a pillow that he placed in his lap. He patted it and John took the hint; laying his head carefully on Sherlock’s thighs and looking up at him.

“You’re all right, John,” Sherlock promised, smoothing the sandy hair back down with one hand and resting the other on John’s chest. “Go back to sleep.” He slid his wrist into John’s open hand and closed the fingers over his pulse with his other hand, giving John a sweet smile, “So you can sleep without fear that I’m hurt.”

“Okay,” John mumbled while he gripped the thin wrist, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath of exhaustion. “I love you.”

Sherlock hummed and began to run his free hand over John’s straight hair again, “And I love you. Every part of you; even this one.”

John smiled sadly and was glad his eyes were already closed because they began to well with emotion.

Sherlock smiled and watched as John’s face slowly lost its deep lines of worry and fell lax under the clutches of sleep; his mind silent once more. He felt the fingers that were wrapped around his pulse slowly lose their grip until they were merely hanging on by the sheer force of friction.

“I _do_ love you,” Sherlock whispered into the night air, pressing his fingers to his lips and then transferring the kiss to John’s brow with affection. “Don’t you ever forget that, John Watson.”

He hummed to himself and kept vigil as the doctor slept, finding with an elated heart that no more nightmares were had that morning.

 

***

 

Sherlock could barely contain himself when his mobile trilled in the afternoon, alerting him and John of a new case that Lestrade needed help on. _Honestly, how did the man run a department when he constantly required-_ then the thought hit him. _Perhaps Lestrade didn’t ALWAYS need help, but instead he was giving Sherlock something that made him feel NORMAL. Very clever, Lestrade. Wonder if it is at Mycroft’s behest._

 

From: D.I. Lestrade

_Sherlock, I hate to call you in on this one, but my team and I can’t find anything on her. –GL_

_13:48_

He furrowed his brow as he typed back.

 

To: D.I. Lestrade

_What’s happened? What’s the address? –SH_

_13:49_

“Does Greg need you?” John queried quietly, his lips remaining on the brim of his teacup as he blew cold air into it. He was still exhausted, but had been thankful Sherlock had suggested he return to sleep that night and had Sherlock not used the last of their coffee to experiment with stains of different calibers, he would have had a completely black cup just to bring his senses back to their place. Alas, he had to settle with tea.

The mobile trilled again and Sherlock nodded, not looking up at him, “Seems so. Doesn’t sound very excited about it either.”

“What do you mean?”

 

From: D.I. Lestrade

_I’d rather not explain over text. You know the old building on Canterbury Street? Third floor. See you soon. –GL_

_13:52_

“I don’t know, he’s just being terribly vague,” Sherlock admitted, shrugging and slipping the mobile into his pocket. “No matter. Are you coming?”

John lifted a brow in suspicion and set his cup down, “Of course I am. Last time I sent you off by yourself, you got lost and I had to find you again; saves me the hassle if I just lose you on my own.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and padded towards the post, gripping his Belstaff in his large palms before slipping it on and shooting his eyes to the ground, “So, erm, John.”

“Hmm?” The doctor hummed as he slipped on his shoes and bent forward to tie them. He looked up just in time to see Sherlock flush bright red and he cocked his brow, “You all right?”

Sherlock blinked and sucked in a deep breath before meeting John’s gaze as if there was something terribly important he needed to say, “I- erm- well your favourite holiday is next week, you know.”

John smiled and nodded, standing up, “Yes it is. What of it?”

Sherlock tucked his chin into his scarf and kept his eyes on the ground, “Well, according to popular culture, one is meant to spend Christmas with… um…”

“Their family?” John suggested since Sherlock seemed to be floundering.

The detective’s face practically steamed and John could virtually feel his resolve slipping, “Well, I _suppose_ that’s true, but I meant…”

“You’re supposed to spend it with people you _love_ ,” John finally stated, walking over to Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him. “Of course I’ll be spending it with you, you great idiot.”

Sherlock smiled and exhaled his hot breath against John’s neck, thankful that he didn’t _actually_ have to ask, “Wonderful.”

John rolled his eyes and pulled away, fixing Sherlock’s scarf flat against his chest and rising to his toes to kiss his cheek, “Come on, you sentimental man.”

He grabbed the detective’s gloved hand and led him down the stairs and out into the street where the lucky man raised one hand and was greeted by a cab. They slid inside and Sherlock barked directions while John slipped on his own gloves and leaned back against the seat.

“What’s _your_ favourite holiday, Sherlock?” John queried as he pulled on his left glove and smiled at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and granted him with a thin smile before looking out the window into London.

“Before you are done, you will know every little bit of useless information about me.”

“That’s the plan,” John said cheerfully, earning him a wide smile from the detective who looked back at him with a soft expression.

Sherlock gripped John’s hand and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, well aware of the disapproving glare he was receiving from the cabbie, “I suppose New Years. It gives people the chance to start over; to make something better of themselves for the next year. Most of it is poppycock and hardly anyone ever follows through because people are idiots, but the concept is a comforting one. Just that you can, at the stroke of midnight, begin a new lifestyle. Just _start over_.”

John smiled and bounced his head in agreement, “I think that’s wonderful. Perhaps we can start something new together this year.” He suddenly smirked and eyed the detective, “Maybe a new workout routine. God knows you’ve put on a few pounds with domestic life!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s teasing and gripped his hand tighter, leaning against the window as he watched the white-dusted streets pass with a blur. John was _wonderful_. Sherlock wasn’t sure who he had bribed or impressed to allow him the opportunity to meet the extraordinary doctor, but he thanked whatever deity existed for their chance meeting- _wait._

_Mike Stamford._

_That’s_ how they met. Perhaps he’d send him a card or a basket of wine. That’s what people do to thank each other, isn’t it? He’d have to ask John about the proper procedure of repaying debts.

The cab slowed to a halt and John handed the man some notes before following the detective out onto Canterbury Street. The building that was surrounded with crime scene tape was not a lovely one. It climbed five stories high, but it had been abandoned for at _least_ a decent decade. The white stone had faded and mildewed into dark grey that the snow did nothing to improve.

“Charming,” Sherlock muttered as they slipped beneath the tape and traveled up the three flights of stairs to the third floor, not needing an invitation to find the D.I. shouting orders at some of his inferiors.

“Sherlock!” He hollered as soon as his brown eyes laid on them. He walked over to them and shook their hands before rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s… It’s not pretty, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have called you on it if I’d had any other choice. John, if he starts to feel ill, will you pull him away on doctor’s orders?”

The doctor looked from the D.I. to the consultant with worry before nodding, “Of course. What’s happened?”

Lestrade explained as they walked down the empty hall towards the room with flashing camera bulbs, “Mariana Atwater, nineteen-”

“ _Nineteen?”_ John interrupted urgently, “Christ, she’s no more than a _child_!”

Lestrade puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, “I know. We only know her name because her wallet was shoved down her throat and her ID was inside. It’s one of those cloth ones, but it still- Christ. She’s been raped, but it’s not… not _normal_.”

Sherlock cocked a brow before he stepped into the room and was greeted with an explanation of Lestrade’s hesitance. _No. This was anything but normal._

The poor blonde woman lie face first on the ground, clutching at her abdomen, her panicked eyes still wide open in death. What was upsetting though was not her face, but her lower half. Her white skirt was _drenched_ in rust-colored blood and the crusted remains travelled down her thighs and pooled at her knees.

“ _Christ_ ,” John breathed, covering his mouth and pinching his eyes shut. He didn’t have to get any closer to know what had happened. Terrible things occurred in Afghanistan; the worst not being the bullets and the bombs. He’d seen something exactly like this once after a rebel extremist group had pillaged a town near their squadron’s camp. The girl then was hardly out of her childhood, too, and John had wept like a weak adolescent the night after they’d found her. Abidah had been her name. She had been a beautiful girl, ravaged by the horrors of reality and John’s gut clenched with the memories.

“John?”

The doctor opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s pursed lips asking if he was all right silently to which he nodded, “I’m fine, just… This is familiar.”

“To someone or a group?” Sherlock questioned, looking back to the corpse as John sighed.

“The latter. It’s not gonna help you here, I’m sure,” he mumbled as he walked over to her body and accepted a pair of gloves from a constable who seemed pale enough to faint before lifting up the woman’s skirt and confirming his suspicions.

He gagged and laid it back down, looking up to Sherlock with wet eyes, “Surely you don’t need an explanation.”

The detective shook his head and rested his palm on John’s shoulder before bending down to search the body for any clues the murderer had left. For a moment, he was _thankful_ that Lucan Wilcox had been the way he was because he could only imagine _this_ happening.

 _A bottle_. A _glass_ bottle had been used to violate this poor girl and the man had used it until it _shattered_ against her delicate skin. It made him sick and he decided right then and there that he would not sleep until this monster had been put safely behind bars or _worse_.

“The bottle he used was one that contained arack; you can still smell the licorice of the anise. He took it with him, so I would search in the vicinity for any rubbish that hasn’t been collected yet.” He bent forward as he noticed a bruise on her neck from where she’d been pinned to the ground and it made his throat ache in sympathy. He delicately placed his hand at her throat and sighed. Sometimes he _hated_ doing this. “His grip is about the size of mine, so you’re looking for a rather tall man who frequents places that sell that particular spirit. I only know of two shops that sell it within the bounds of London, so I’d check the security tapes for anyone buying it within the last week. I’d also say he was impotent, so crosscheck that list with any man who might have a prescription for pills.” He looked back down at the girl’s face and did something he’d never done before. His fingers delicately touched her eyelids and shut them, so that sans the bloody skirt, she might look as if she were sleeping. Perhaps it was just his similar experience that made him feel this way, but he felt _remorse_ for this wretched woman. He sighed and shook his head, “She struggled, _hard_ , and this man was large enough and strong enough to subdue her. There’s no indication that he had any jewelry, but I wouldn’t rule out married men. I- Christ!”

He pinched his eyes tight and shook his head as images and sensations sprung to the forefront of his mind so with the added notion of shattered mirrors playing a role in his violation and he rubbed his forehead with his palm; knocking the thoughts from their hold on his mind. _You are FINE. This poor soul needs justice and you can’t do that if you’re panicking_.

He exhaled deeply as he physically swallowed his bad thoughts and stood, “If you find a man who’s at least six feet with a fresh scratch across his face, arrest him. He’ll most likely be of south Asian or middle eastern descent.”

Just then there was a crash that echoed throughout the building as a gun went off and a woman screamed a floor above them. Sherlock shot a glare at Lestrade who was already hollering into his radio, “Officer down! I repeat, Officer _down_! Send me an ambulance!”

The doctor shot past the detective and Sherlock had to shake himself of shock before ironically chasing after him.

John leapt the few stairs to the upper floor and found a female officer gripping at her abdomen while grinding her teeth a few steps into the first room of the hall. He knelt down to her and ripped a bit of cloth from his shirt and placed it against the wound, speaking gently but urgently as blood warmed his hands, “Hello there, I’m Doctor John Watson. What’s your name?”

The red-headed woman groaned and bit out, “O-Olivia.”

John smiled and cupped her cheek as Sherlock joined him in the room, “That’s a beautiful name, Olivia. Look, you’re going to be fine. Just relax and _breathe_. Do you have children?”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded, “A little girl… Alice.”

John kept his eyes on the woman in his care as Sherlock bounded past him and into the other rooms, “All right, I want you to think about your little Alice, okay? I need you to calm down and think about your little girl. Remind yourself that you need to get home to her, all right?”

The woman cried out as John’s hand put more pressure on the wound as she jerked beneath him. John ‘Shhh’d’ her as he slipped one hand to her uniform buttons, “I’m going to open your shirt and look at your wound, okay? Don’t panic if you feel a little cold.”

Practiced fingers slipped open the uniform shirt and John switched hands as he felt around the back of her side for an exit wound. “Alright, Olivia, I need you to lie _very_ still. The bullet is still inside you and I don’t want it going anywhere it doesn’t have any business going, do you understand?”

The woman gasped and nodded as John heard Lestrade’s voice boom from behind him, “John!”

The doctor turned as the D.I. knelt beside him and the doctor grabbed his hands with his own bloody ones and held them to the woman’s wound, “Greg, I need you to keep pressure on this, okay? I need to go find Sherlock before he gets himself bloody well killed. Just press down- yeah, just like that. Now she’s still got the bullet in her, so let the paramedics know.”

“John, where are you-?”

“Sherlock is an _idiot_ ,” John interrupted before wiping his hands on his jeans and brushing the hair from Lieutenant Olivia’s face, “Olivia, you’re going to be just fine, okay? D.I. Lestrade here is going to stay with you until help comes. Just keep thinking about your little girl. Try and remember what her favorite colour is and what her favourite bedtime story is- anything that will keep you calm.”

John stood and nearly made it to the door before he felt at the small of his back and sensed no illegal weapon with which he could protect Sherlock with. “Damn!” He spun around and knelt at Greg’s side for just a moment before slipping the D.I.’s firearm from his belt.

“John, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Greg snapped, unwilling to remove his hands from the Lieutenant’s abdomen.

“I’m sorry!” John yelled as he tucked it in his waistband and chased after where he’d last seen the detective run off to. He ran to the end of the hallway and to the window before catching a glimpse of Sherlock’s tall frame chasing after the suspect a few meters ahead of him.

“ _Christ! You bloody idiot!”_ John hollered as he slipped through the window and down the emergency stairs that the detective had just used until he found himself above ground level and he leapt down the last ten feet, rolling on the ground as he tried to catch himself. He jerked his head up and caught a glimpse of the dark cotton coat billowing in the wind of the afternoon breeze so he fumbled to his feet and resituated the gun at the small of his back before taking off in pursuit of the _stupid_ detective and his _stupid_ suspect and his _stupid_ addiction to adrenaline.

He almost lost them at the corner of Monroe Street and his chest burned with the rapid inhalation of freezing air into his lungs. “Why can’t you just _wait_ for me you bloody bastard?” John begged no one in particular as he rounded a street and nearly toppled an older woman and her daughter to the ground in his haste.

“Sorry!” He hollered as he continued to chase after the dark coat that he _swore_ he’d just caught a glimpse of rounding that building.

“ _Stay back!”_ he heard a familiar baritone yell from down the street and his gears went into motion tenfold as he chased it, following it into a dark building not unlike the warehouse he’d seen in his nightmares that morning. He would be _damned_ if he let that become a reality though.

John stood still for a moment to listen for the patter of feet and when he finally heard it down the hall on the ground floor, he took off down the hallway. The dark building was lit only with emergency lights that flickered with disuse and set John’s teeth on edge. He passed door after door, quickly looking in and then continuing to run before he finally caught a glimpse of the familiar black curls bouncing as the detective looked around the room he was in, oblivious to the silver gun pointed directly at him from the man standing on the first floor railing.

“Sherlock!” John called out, slipping his firearm from his back and catching the detective’s eye just before he heard the click of a safety cock back. He aimed his barrel straight for a shot between the eyes and before he knew it he had knocked the detective out of the way of any passing bullet and he pulled the trigger.

 _CRACK._  

 

***

 

As soon as Sherlock had heard the screaming of the young Lieutenant, he’d known that their criminal had come back to view his victim just before the police had arrived on scene. What a sadistic _monster_! He’d seen the doctor tend to the wounded officer and satisfied that he would do his job, Sherlock took off after the suspect, following the heavy footsteps down the hall and into the farthest room. He barely caught the glimpse of the six-and-a-half-foot tall man shimmying out of the window and jumping onto the platform for the emergency access stairs before he could follow him.

The stitches in his leg ached and pulled as he jumped down, but he just bit his lip and continued his descent. He swung on the last platform for a second before he knew he could stick the landing and dropped, swearing to himself as he felt one of the stitches tear through his skin. He took off as fast as he still could and followed the chocolate-skinned man through the streets of London nearly knocking a dozen people out of his way in his haste. He suddenly saw the man unsheathe his gun from his jacket and Sherlock’s voice escaped his lips without his permission.

“Stay back!” He hollered, waving his hand at a group of pedestrians that were unfortunately standing right in the suspect’s way. The angry man pistol whipped at an unexpecting young man with headphones but didn’t quite make contact and used the distraction of the man falling to the ground as a perfect time to run into a dark building with a boarded up door that he broke down with a single thrust of his entire body weight.

Sherlock paused for only a second to see the man stand back up, relatively unscathed and continued his chase, feeling a bit of blood drip down his calf as he pounded against the concrete and into the dark house.

He stopped for a moment to listen for the man’s footsteps and followed where they led.

 _Where did you go?_ He questioned himself silently as his steps slowed and he spun around in circles listening for the steps of his suspect. He twisted as he thought he saw the glimmer of something in a room and bounded in, turning his head in every direction as he tried to see in the darkness that was only illuminated by emergency lights that flickered irritatingly.

 _Come on, come on, come on you bastard,_ he thought to himself as he spun around and peered into the darkness around him.

“ _Sherlock!”_

He jerked around and to his astonishment, _John_ was right there running towards him, gun drawn. He opened his mouth to question his companion before a myriad of things happened all at once.

One bullet was let loose from its barrel followed by another and he felt John’s entire muscular body collide into him and toss him to the ground, knocking his head against the hard concrete and stunning him for a moment. He blinked hard and shook his head as he pushed on his elbow and sat up straight, directing his gaze to where John’s smoking gun was aimed.

A dark mass dropped from a grated walkway that Sherlock hadn’t even seen and landed with a sickening _thunk_ against the concrete floor. Sherlock smiled and pulled himself to his feet, dusting off his suit as he chuckled, “Good shot, John!”

There was a clatter of light metal against the ground that caused Sherlock to look up and as he did, his heart sank, “John?”

The firearm landed next to John’s feet where his hand had gone limp and let it fall and his left hand clutched at his lower ribs as his eyes creased with pain. Sherlock’s heart practically stopped in his chest. _No. Nonononono._

The doctor’s chest concaved slight with every exhale and his expression of resignation broke slightly as he dropped his jaw and took to one knee with his free hand steadying him on the floor.

“John!” Sherlock cried as he cleared the distance between them with hurried steps as the silent doctor’s hand jerked behind him as he slumped back and pursed his lips with discomfort.

“John! You’re going to be all right!” Sherlock hollered, easing John’s frame back and pressing one hand over his friend’s, feeling the sickly warm liquid of life pulsing through both of their palms.

John grimaced as he sucked in a breath and exhaled with a soft chuckle, “ _Fuck,_ that hurts a lot more than I remember.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back at John’s humor, but pressed his hands against John’s chest causing him to cry out.

“You’re going to be all right, John,” Sherlock promised, feeling his entire frame trembling at the sight of John’s paling face.

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock interrupted him and shook his head, “We’ll get you help and you’ll get to a hospital and you’ll live and you won’t leave me alone.”

John’s frame bucked slightly and he hissed though his teeth, “Sherlock, please-”

“Dammit, John! Tell me how to fix this! I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“Sherlock, _stop_!” John hollered weakly, pressing his head back into the concrete as he bared his teeth in agony. “Ah! Just- just stop.”

Sherlock shook his head and he could feel saline welling in his eyes, “What do you mean _stop_? Perhaps you’ve not noticed, but this isn’t a _hospital_.”

John’s eyebrows parenthesized his navy eyes and he shook his head slightly causing Sherlock’s eyes to widen in horror.

“No,” he mumbled shaking his head and pressing down against John’s ribs again. “No, no, no don’t say that! Y-you’re _wrong_!”

John’s shoes scuffed the concrete as he pulled his knee up and laid his arch flat against the surface as he grimaced, “One of us has a medical degree- ah!- and I don’t think it’s you.”

Sherlock wiped his face on his shoulder and shook his head, damp curls dipping into his face, “No! You promised me you’d love me- you can’t- this isn’t _fair_!”

John smiled sadly and creased his eyes as he tried to keep them open, “Yes, but I… _Christ!_ I promised I’d keep you _safe_ first.”

“Damn you!” Sherlock hollered, making John’s face flinch at the volume. “Damn you, John! You can’t just give me everything I’ve ever wanted then take it _away_! You can’t _do_ that!”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, measured breaths whistling out of his nostrils. “I am...”

Sherlock shook his head and wiped one hand off on his trousers before placing it at John’s lips, “Shhh, you’re supposed to stop talking or you’ll make it worse. You’re a doctor, you should know that.”

“I _am_ a doctor,” John agreed quietly, his eyes flicking to the detective’s sadly, “which is why I know I won’t be getting off this floor again.”

Sherlock blinked the emotion from his eyes and leaned his head against John’s chest as the doctor bucked beneath him with a groan.

“Shhh, Sherlock,” John whispered, pulling one hand from his wound and cupping Sherlock’s cheek with it, regardless of the sticky crimson that stained it. “Look, I need you to go.”

Sherlock’s face jerked up and pinched in confusion, “ _What_?”

A weathered thumb traced the prominent cheekbone as John hummed in discomfort, “I need you to _leave_. If I’m going to die here, I don’t want you to see it. You’ll never get that sight out of your head.”

Sherlock shook his head and pressed his lips to John’s forehead, “I’m not leaving and you’re not going to die here. I’ll- I’ll think of something. Lestrade probably already has a unit on the way.”

“Shhh,” John hushed, his face twitching in pain. He smiled sadly, “You stubborn bastard.”

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself and the motion of his cheeks cause a line of tears to slide down, “You’re gonna be all right, John.”

“No,” John whispered, shaking his head slightly as his eyes fluttered shut. “I’m not and that’s okay. You’re safe and that’s-” His entire frame tensed and he cried out as blood seeped through his fingertips, “ _Fuck!”_ He forced hot air from his nostrils as he peeled his eyes open and met Sherlock’s, “Sherlock, I need you to know that this is _not_ your fault.”

“Yes it is!” Sherlock disagreed, feeling John’s hand slightly relax on his cheek. “You wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t!”

“Sherlock, you don’t understand. You have saved me in _so_ many more ways than I thought possible. I can’t- ah!- I can’t thank you e-enough for that. I _chose_ to follow you and I _chose_ to protect you.” John’s thumb traced the prominent cheekbone as he blinked hard and slow. He suddenly gripped Sherlock’s cheek and brought his forehead to his mouth, kissing the detective with quivering lips. He pulled Sherlock’s face back and looked him dead in the eye, “Look me in the eye, Sherlock.” The detective obeyed and John smiled sadly, “Sherlock Holmes, I love you. Because you are amazing and brilliant and mad and wonderful. I was lost before I found you and y-you gave me a reason- Christ! I can’t- ugh- I can’t- fuck, I can’t breathe.”

John’s eyes closed as he swallowed at air that wasn’t making it to his blood and Sherlock’s mind kicked back in. _Comfort. That’s what you’re supposed to do- comfort him._

“D-don’t be frightened, John,” he tried, pushing back the doctor’s hair with his free hand.

John chuckled and opened his eyes halfway with a weak smile, gasping for every other word, “I’m not afraid, Sherlock… You’re here… Y-you’re what makes me b-brave.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled and his head dipped back to John’s chest before a weak hand cupped his face and brought it close to his. Sherlock was horrified that John had been _right._ He was watching the light leaving the navy orbs like a candle being blown out by the wind and he felt sick to his stomach.

“Sherlock, this is going to be the single- gah!- single most _selfish_ thing I will _ever_ do…” He brought Sherlock face so close to his own that Sherlock couldn’t actually see him straight, “But I can’t leave you without doing it at least _once_.”

Sherlock gasped as cold lips pressed against his own and the hand that cupped his cheek traveled to the back of his head, anchoring him in place. He closed his eyes- _that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?-_ and allowed John’s lips to pucker against his own until the doctor’s mouth moved slightly to the side and Sherlock felt the heat of his tongue pressing against his lips. He copied the motion and felt a hundred conflicting emotions all at once. _Fear, joy, pain, happiness, love, horror, warmth, ice, heartbreak, comfort._ On one hand, this was all he’d ever dreamt of. John was warm and soft and tasted like tea and happiness and it made his heart soar to finally understand the loveliness of John’s kiss. On the other hand, his love, his blogger, his _John_ was _dying_ beneath him and he could feel the lips getting colder against his own until they pulled away and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John smiling lightly against his skin.

“You taste like summer,” he whispered breathlessly, earning him a sob from the detective who pressed his mouth back up against John’s who accepted it gladly. 

 _Wasn’t your first kiss supposed to be magical and surreal and inspiring?_ Sherlock’s entire body trembled with sobs he tried to suppress and he continued to let John’s lips separate and infiltrate his own. As was the story with Sherlock’s life, he’d done everything _wrong_. First he’d let the man he loved get _shot_ then his first kiss was the wish of said dying man. _God, he was impossible._

John had been right about the whole "terribly intimate" comment. Even though the breath was stunted and cold, he could feel their bodies sharing air and space and tastes and he'd never felt so  _close_ to someone before. Every emotion, every feeling that John experienced at that moment was transferred through their frantic locking of lips and Sherlock head swam with all the sensations. God, Sherlock had longed to taste these wonderful lips for as long as he could remember at this point, but this wasn't what he wanted  _at all._

Sherlock’s lips felt raw and bruised when suddenly he felt a raspy exhale escape into his mouth and the hand that loosely gripped his curls fell lax and slowly drifted to the floor as the doctor’s head tipped to the side.

“No,” Sherlock begged, gripping John’s face and pressing his lips again and again to the lax, pale ones, feeling nothing animated react. “No! No, no, no! John, _stop_ this!”

He could feel his entire body cracking and breaking apart inside him as he stopped feeling the doctor inhale beneath him and the navy eyes refused to open as he shook his shoulders, “John!”

He felt his chest concave and his breath became rapid and panicked as he tried to come to term with what had just transpired.

_I can’t- John’s… Dead? No! Nonononono I’m not ready- damn him! John, you don’t know my favourite book or taste or texture- John, you still have to ask me all of that! You have to kiss me on Christmas day so I know what you taste like when you’re happy! You can’t do this. You can’t leave me alone! PLEASE!_

He leaned his head against John’s chest with a sob and rubbed his face into the cooling cloth on John’s chest.

John. Friend. Blogger. Doctor. Lover. Savior.

And now Sherlock had _lost_ him. He sobbed as his hands fisted in the fabric and he shook his head.

 _His fault. This was all his fault AGAIN._ He couldn’t control himself and he was raped. He couldn’t control himself and John was murdered in front of him. Sherlock was a walking catastrophe- a nuclear bomb that radiated nothing but pain and suffering on those who dared to get too close. John Watson had found that out the hard way and was now lying in a pool of his own blood in a lonely building away from comfort and warmth and family all because he’d followed Sherlock.

“Damn you!” He cursed at himself, resting his head against the still chest until he heard the soft patter of something whisper in his ear.

His sobbing halted momentarily as he pressed his ear flat against John’s chest, trying to decide if it was a trick of his imagination.

Suddenly, he jerked his head up and smiled as tears streamed freely down his face.

John was _alive_.

There was a scarcely lingering _heartbeat._

John was _barely alive_ , but he wasn’t dead, _yet_.

Sherlock shook his head and pressed against John’s chest again, unraveling his scarf from his neck and tying it tight around his friend’s torso.

Suddenly, he felt the bravery that John radiated everyday absorb into his very skin and he steeled himself for action.

He was _done_ being the victim. He was _tired_ of having to be saved and now he was _determined_ to repay his brave doctor for his life.

Sherlock Holmes was not going to be a victim of happenstance _any_ longer. Sherlock Holmes was going to control his own fate and _choose_ what _he_ wanted to happen.

The detective groaned as he slipped his arms underneath John’s body and lifted him like one would a small child and hurried as fast as he could out of the building, stopping for merely a second to catch a glimpse of the alarming pool of crimson that stained the floor.

He burst out of the broken doorway and was greeted with a crowd of pedestrians that seemed to have no clue that the most important man in the world was bleeding to death within their immediate vicinity.

“Help!” Sherlock hollered, gripping John’s limp form against his body and feeling his friend’s head nod against his chest. His mind finally caught up with his body and tried to help him determine what to do. _People don’t help for friends. People help for family. And they help when they think you’re scared. Surely you won’t have to pretend._ “Please, m-my husband’s been shot- he’s- he’s bleeding out! I need an ambulance!”

A small group of humans lifted their heads and took notice of Sherlock’s panicked expression and half a dozen mobiles were suddenly pressed to ears as a few others came and helped Sherlock lower the doctor to the frozen ground.

A middle aged brunette woman broke through the small crowd that had accumulated around them and pushed her way towards John’s limp frame.

“Let me through! I’m a doctor!” she hollered sternly with an American accent, finally breaking through and placing her hands at John’s throat. “I’m Doctor Danielle Straub; I work at Saint Michael’s. What’s this man’s name?”

Sherlock startled slightly at her hurried frankness, but quickly recovered, “Um, J-John. John Watson.”

She patted his cheek and lifted the doctor’s eyelids, “John, can you hear me?” John’s body began to tremble severely in response and the doctor cursed under her breath, “He’s going into shock- take off your coat.”

Sherlock relieved himself of it immediately and wrapped the doctor in it as she lifted his head and shoulders up onto her rather large purse, and pointed at his feet before unbuttoning his shirt, “Lift his feet, he’s lost a lot of blood.”

A dozen onlookers snapped photographs and murmured their shock and condolences, but Sherlock wasn’t paying them any mind as he noticed the doctor’s lips turning an alarming shade of purple as his chest continued to refuse to respire.

“Okay, look- hey!” She nodded at a blonde woman in her late twenties that was looking at them with vague curiosity. “Switch spots with him.” The young woman did exactly that without any questions and the female doctor nodded to the wound as she began to compress against John’s chest, “Press against that wound as tightly as you can. An ambulance should be here any moment.”

Sherlock’s bloody palms pressed against the once blue scarf and he swallowed his anticipation. Christ, he had no idea what he was doing. What shocked him the most though was the immediate response he’d received from the crowd. They were all still idiots, but at least they were idiots that _cared_.

Full lips pressed against cold blue ones as Doctor Straub breathed into John’s mouth without eliciting a reaction. “Come on, John, your husband here is awfully worried about you. Come on back.”

Sherlock’s heart palpitated in his chest as John’s head lolled to the side and the heat pulsing against his hands began to slow.

There were sirens on the street and Sherlock jerked his head up to find Lestrade slamming a car door and running towards them, his own hands covered with the remnants of dried blood. “Christ, Sherlock!”

“Lestrade!” He hollered back, looking back down at the still doctor then back to the D.I. who broke through the crowd easily with his badge and booming voice.

“Dear God!”

Dear God was right. Sherlock prayed to whatever deity existed that John’s heart of gold would continue pumping until real help arrived and that it would continue to for another fifty years just so he could see how John aged in his arms.

Another set of sirens rang throughout the crowded streets and Lestrade turned away from Sherlock to holler at the groups of nosy pedestrians as men and women swooped around John’s cold form. Sherlock was suddenly lifted by underneath his arms and dragged away from where John was and he spun around to see Lestrade’s anxious face looking back at him, “What are you _doing_? Let me go!”

Lestrade only held him tighter to his chest as his brown eyes flicked past the irate detective towards the blonde doctor being put ono a stretcher and attached to a ventilator, “Sorry, mate, but you can’t help- you’re just gonna get in the way. What happened to your face?”

Sherlock had completely forgotten about the bloody handprint on his cheek and shook his head. “Let me _go_ , Lestrade!” He bit, jerking himself from Greg’s grip and standing up in time to see the ambulance scream towards the nearest emergency room and suddenly he felt terribly lightheaded and cold.

“Sherlock?”

He blinked profusely and tried to focus on one of the hundred faces staring at him but found that they just became a sea of humans that murmured like the whispering winds on the ocean.

 _Great,_ his mind supplied as he felt his knees dip and his head slowly slump forward as he was caught in midair by the D.I. _You’re going into shock. Lovely. SO much for not having to be saved this time!_

 _Shut up,_ the other part of his mind snapped as hazy eyes watched Lestrade commandeer someone from the crowd to help lift him into Lestrade’s cruiser.

His eyelids slowly closed and his world was sent into darkness with only one question bounding around his frazzled mind.

John was an idiot and he was seldom wrong, but could he be wrong about this?

Could he be wrong about his own death?

Everything in Sherlock’s entire being hoped to God he was.


	15. Breath of Fresh Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on. Don't give up. The tag says "Eventual Happy Ending", Believe it!

“Mycroft, _do_ something!”

The detective ripped at his curls as he paced back and forth in the hallway, much to his older brother’s chagrin.

“Sherlock, what do you want me to _do_?” He asked exasperatedly, resting his head in his palm. As soon as Gregory had called him, alerting him that his little brother was unconscious and that John Watson was at death’s door, he had been at the hospital using his pull to assemble the most practiced doctors and surgeons he could find. Doing anything and everything he knew to do to help.

“ _FIX him!”_ Sherlock snapped, gesturing at the door with red _DO NOT ENTER_ signs preventing them access. “You _fix_ things! You make things _happen_! FIX it!”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, “Sherlock, I’ve _done_ what I can do.”

“Well that’s not _good enough_!” Sherlock bit out, suddenly swaying on his feet as he jerked an arm to the door again. “He is going to _die_ and you’re just going to sit there and _let_ him, you _monster-_ you _idiot_ \- you-!”

Mycroft jerked his head up as he heard the _thunk_ of flesh against the wall opposite him. His brother slid down the wall and pulled his knees to his chest, trembling hands covering his face as he began to sob, “My- _please!_ _DO_ something!”

Mycroft quickly knelt at Sherlock’s side and brushed the fringe from his brow, “Sherlock, I- I’m _trying_. I- I don’t know what else I can _do._ ”

Mycroft’s “Iceman” heart splintered as he watched Sherlock’s face crumple and his entire body tremble with tears.

“I don’t _want_ him to die!” Sherlock cried out, not unlike the eleven-year-old Mycroft had coddled through Redbeard’s death. “He promised me he’d love me, I- I- I want _that_. Please My, you _must_ do something!”

The elder Holmes ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair and pressed soft lips to his brow in the hopes of mollifying him, “I am, Sherlock. You’re going to be just fine. Don’t fret little brother. John Watson is the embodiment of stubbornness; he’ll be fine.”

“No he _won’t_!” Sherlock cried into his knees, sobs making his stomach churn. “He’s going to _die_ and it’s going to be all my fault _again_!”

There was a pattering of heels against the linoleum floor and Mycroft looked up to see the silver-topped D.I. sprinting through the hall. As soon as he met the two men, he leaned over on his knees, puffing from the exertion, “Any word?”

The politician shook his head slightly and, pressed back Sherlock’s hair, “Sherlock, you have to _breathe_ or you’re going to faint again.”

The detective leaned back his head and smacked it on the wall as his breaths came in gasps.

“Are you all right?” Greg mumbled to the politician who seemed far paler than he normally did.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft stated blandly, pressing his hand against Sherlock’s clammy brow. “I hope to God he pulls through. For his sake and Sherlock’s.”

Greg thinned his lips in agreement and jerked his eyes to Sherlock as he started to mumble between his tears.

“He’s going to be okay,” he mumbled, raising one arm to cover his face. “He promised and he doesn’t break his promises. He can’t lie. He doesn’t know how.”

“He is, mate,” Greg soothed, shooting a glance at Mycroft as he rubbed tenderly on Sherlock’s upper arm. “He’s not gonna leave you like this. I’ve never seen someone love someone else as much as I’ve seen John love you. He’s not gonna do that to you.”

Sherlock sobbed before a horrific noise whispered from behind the door.

A single droning note that continued even as the seconds ticked by.

Sherlock clapped his hand over his mouth and jerked to his feet. _No. No. No._

“ _Sherlock!”_

Before Mycroft could catch the detective’s arm to prevent him from running in, Sherlock barreled through the blocked doors to hear the gut-wrenching whine of a heart monitor losing contact with a beating heart. He looked through the first door in the hall and saw the most horrific sight he’d ever been privy to. Bright white lights shined on a ghostly pale man with sandy blonde hair and closed navy eyes who lay as still as a corpse on a table; a bloody cloth slipping down from his chest. There was a sigh and the snapping of rubber as if someone who peeling off their gloves and he couldn’t contain his roar, “What are you _doing_?! Bring him _back_!”

A doctor spun around and narrowed his eyes at him and yelled back, “The _hell_ are you doing here?! Get _out!”_

“You’re not even _trying_!” Sherlock bellowed back through the doorway, feeling his chest cave in on itself. He gasped as he tried to suck in more oxygen, but seemed unable to.

“My sincerest apologies!” He heard Mycroft holler from behind him as long arms wrapped around his torso and dragged him away from the door.

Sherlock kicked and cried out as he was dragged backwards and the droning of the heart monitor run in his head.

 _John is dying. His heart is stopping. He’s just_ giving up.

“No!” he screamed as the red doors closed around them again and a second pair of arms grabbed at him.

“Sherlock! Calm down!” Mycroft hollered, setting him against the wall and gripping his cheeks as the detective sobbed.

“ _No!_ They’re- they’re not even _trying_! He’s _dying,_ can’t they see that? Doesn’t it _matter_ to them?”

“Sherlock, they’re doing what they can!” Greg called back, pressing gently against his stomach to keep him from pulling a muscle with his hyperventilation.

“What about mine?” Sherlock questioned earning a cocked brow from Mycroft. “His heart’s not working, but what about _mine_? Surely you could authorize that, My! Please! I don’t- please, My!”

Mycroft shook his head and clutched the detective against his chest, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Sherlock. I wish it were that simple.”

Long fingers gripped at the thick three-piece suit and Sherlock stained his shoulder with heavy tears, “My, he’s dying! I don’t know what to _do._ I’m… I’m _terrified_. _”_

Mycroft exhaled shakily, wishing for all the world he could just _fix_ this like his brother asked. He controlled the entirety of the nation’s military, so _why_ couldn’t he just save one soldier?

“Shhh, Sherlock,” he hushed, his long hand pressing flat against Sherlock’s crown. “It’s going to be all right. I promise, and I am a man of my word.”

“I have to spend Christmas with him,” he sobbed, his head spinning. “He asked me to. It’s his favourite holiday, My.”

“I know,” he hummed, running his fingers through the soft curls. “Shhh.”

There was murmuring behind the door and the droning mechanical whine continued to ring out his lover’s expiration throughout the air.

Sherlock’s heart caught in his chest. _It’s been three minutes. The chances of coming back to life after three minutes are less than ten percent. John is dead._

_John is dead._

_And it is YOUR fault._

His head spun with guilt and anger and heartbreak as he wept into his big brother’s suit, tearing it at his back with his nails.

“We’ll get you through this,” Mycroft promised quietly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I want him _back_ ,” he moaned, shaking his head. “I’ll do _anything_!”

Mycroft pinched his eyes tight in sympathy and rested his cheek on Sherlock’s crown, “I’m… I’m sorry, Sherlock. It doesn’t… It doesn’t work that way.”

Sherlock shook his head and gripped at Mycroft as if he were trying to withstand a hurricane force of wind ripping at his body.

_Four minutes._

_Seven percent._

_Five minutes._

_Six Percent._

_Six minutes._

_Five percent._

_Seven minutes._

_Four percent._

_John is dead. What do I…_

_What do I do?_

 

***

 

John fluttered his eyes open and was greeted with blinding white, so he jerked his arm over his face until they adjusted and he forced himself into an upright position.

The first thing he noticed was the temperature- or lack thereof. It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t cold it was just a sort of bland, stagnancy of air. What was he wearing that made him so insensitive? He lifted his arm and glanced at the thin, blue-striped jumper covering his skin and the clean tan of his skin as if he’d been washed with diligent care. He turned his hands about and pinched his lips. No blood beneath his fingernails, no tremor of terror or pain, just unscarred skin pulled over muscles, tendons, and bones.

He pressed his left hand against his chest and felt for the bullet wound he knew should be there, lifting up his jumper when he could sense nothing beneath the fabric.

 _Nothing_.

He pinched the skin tight betwixt his fingertips and then spread it out as he searched for the gaping hole that _should_ have been there.

 _Aw, fuck_.

He dropped his shirt and jerked his hand to his collar, pulling it away from his shoulder and looking down in horror.

The tanned skin was pristine and perfect. No webbing of past infection, no scars of the amateur stitching he’d done to keep himself from bleeding out when it had happened; there was absolutely _nothing_ but skin unmarred by reality.

 _Well,_ he thought releasing his collar and dropping his head into his palms, _there are worse things than dying. I can’t think of any right now, but I’m sure I will, given enough time… Which I suppose I’ll have quite a bit of now._

He could feel his chest tighten with emotion and his eyes welling with hot tears as he curled in on himself and began to weep. He’d tried his damnedest to not exhibit his fear as Sherlock had held him through his dying breaths because he had known from the second he felt the lead rip into his flesh that the detective was going to panic and that was _not_ the last thing he wanted to see.

But now, as he found himself quite _alone_ in this expanse of stark _white_ , he allowed himself to grieve for his own mortality. He had wanted _forever_ with the brilliant detective he had called his own for only that short while. He had wanted to taste Sherlock’s skin every morning and every night as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, blissed and happy just to _be_. He had wanted to run his fingers through that unruly dark hair while the irritated detective hollered at the telly for its awful scripts, but that was all gone. _All of it._ He let it slip _right_ through his fingers.

A harsh sob wracked through his body and he covered his mouth with one hand, impressing the sensation of Sherlock’s hot lips to his memory. Perhaps it had been because the detective was a furnace as a normal state of being, or perhaps it had been because John’s skin had already become ice when he did it, but Sherlock’s lips had _burned_ with intensity and love and fear and everything wonderful in the world as they had shared their first kiss. John groaned and slumped onto his back as he thought about that.

His first kiss with Sherlock had been wonderful, but the detective _already_ had problems with flashbacks of pain when he was touched. Would he ever be able to kiss anyone again, sensing John’s cold lips against his as the life slipped away from his system every time that he did?

_God, WHY had he done that to the poor man?!_

John sobbed as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. The thought of Sherlock being held by anyone else made him sick with grief, but Sherlock _deserved_ love. Whether or not it was from him, Sherlock _deserved_ to be held at night and kissed in the morning and told how wonderful he was on a daily basis and now John had gone and bollixed everything up AGAIN.

“You fucking _idiot_!” He moaned out loud, kicking his feet against the ground in self-vexation. Sherlock would never find someone who could eradicate the scars John had just burned into his mind and all because John couldn’t keep his selfishness to himself!

_Well… There’s not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it now…_

He pinched his face tight and scrubbed at it with his sleeve, forcing his breath to come out in soft swallows rather than panicked gasps and finally drove himself to sit up again. With a sigh he turned his head about and glanced at the surroundings and he crinkled his nose as he recognized it.

_Baker Street._

He’d recognize the embellished wallpaper and furniture _anywhere_ , but it was all doused in bright, shining white as if someone had dumped gallon upon gallon of paint on every surface.

Curious, he clapped his hands and listened as the sound echoed far longer than it would have had the atmosphere been made of air. He puffed out his cheeks as he steeled himself to stand and finally forced himself up.

He shook his head and had to swallow another sob as he felt the rest of his body. There was no pain _anywhere_. His gut, his shoulder, his leg- there was just… _nothingness._ God, wasn’t this all so hateful?

His jaw trembled as he raked a hand through his hair and found himself utterly _alone_ as he stepped forward and traced a fingertip on the familiar fabric of the teal seat his detective would most often occupy and he felt his heart lurch in his chest as he turned and looked at the bleached version of his own chair.

_What’s going to happen to it?_

Would Sherlock get sick of being reminded of John’s missing presence and throw it away or would he never move it and thus never move on because he was afraid he’d forget John if he did?

“ _F-fuck_ ,” John whispered, slumping into Sherlock’s unnaturally white chair and dragging his fingers down his cheeks. “What have I _done?”_

“ _Hello_.”

John hollered at the unfamiliar voice and jerked his head up, jolting back in his seat as he did.

In a complete contrast to the white surrounding him, a black figure stood before him, right in front of the empty fireplace. John narrowed his eyes as he tried to decipherer _what_ exactly _it_ was. It was about the size of a large child or small adult and its entire body, although three-dimensional, was a collection of black smoke that swirled like milk in hot tea. _How does it all stay in that shape? Sherlock would certainly have some idea._ The being was thin, but its body moved like a human’s, bending in all the right joints and standing straight as an adult normally would, but when John looked at its head he was surprised to find no face; just more of the swirling smoke kept inside the container of its transparent skin.

“H-hello,” he stammered, sitting straight up and looking around the room again before looking back to it. He twitched his lips in a small half-smile deciding that if this was to be his companion throughout the end, he might as well make friends with it. “What’s your name?”

The voice spoke, but John startled at the sound for it was not _a_ voice. It was a compilation of _hundreds_ of voices speaking the same tones at the same time and covering each other up in their chorus of speech, “ _I am.”_

John waited for the proper noun to appear, but it never did and he cocked a brow, “You are… _what?_ ”

“ _I… am…”_ the being answered back, extending a hand as if gesturing to the air.

John crinkled his nose and shrugged, “Well, I supposed I’ve heard stranger names, I-am. Take Mycroft for example. _Who_ would name their child that?” He chuckled to himself, but the dark creature seemed not to find the humor in it. He pinched his lips and looked down at clasped hands in his lap, “I’m John. Or… I _was_. Do I get to keep my name? I’m rather fond of it.”

There was an odd humming that escaped the being’s invisible lips, _“Follow me.”_

John rolled his eyes and stood. This was all terribly cliché. Sherlock probably would have told the thing to piss off by now, but John… _wasn’t_ Sherlock. Whereas Sherlock probably would have thrived with all of the enigmas this world had to offer, he was afraid to be on his own in this realm of… _whatever_ it was. And besides, he needed to stop reminding himself of the brazen detective if he didn’t want to exist in a perpetual state of agony.

“So, I-am,” John attempted to start conversation as he followed the being’s footsteps that left little spots of smoke as it moved forward, “um, what- where are we going?”

“ _John Watson,_ ” it hummed, waving its hand and opening the door without contact to the stairwell of this pseudo-Baker Street. “ _Why are you here?”_

 _Had he told it his last name?_ John screwed up his face in indignation, “Well… I dunno. I mean, I got shot.”

“ _Why are you_ here _?”_ The being pressed more sternly as he lead John out onto the silent and blinding white version of Baker Street and gesturing to the door.

“I don’t under- oh.” John looked at the white door and what should have been the brass knocker and sighed as his fingers traced the _221_ , “It’s… It’s home.”

“ _Why?_ ”

John smirked and looked down at the being, “You sure ask a lot of questions of someone who has no idea where he is.”

The being seemed to ignore him and began to walk down the empty street, leaving John behind until the doctor hurried back to its side.

“So, erm,” John hummed, jerking his hands into his pockets as the being silently moved down the street. He pointed at his throat, “Why’s your- um- why’s your voice like that? Are you coming down with something? I’m a doctor- or well, _was-_ perhaps I can help you.”

The shadows and smoke turned its head and presumably looked up to John’s face, “ _I am.”_

John rolled his eyes and sighed, “Yeah- I _got_ that part.”

“ _I am that I am.”_

John shook his head and pursed his lips, “Forget I asked.”

“ _I am that I am. Which is… you.”_

 _That_ caught John’s attention and he jerked his head down with a furrowed brow, “What?”

The being stopped walking and so did John as he looked down at the smoky face, “ _I am what you are.”_ The voices finally dropped to one familiar one as the shadows and smoke took the shape of a familiar woman.

“ _Johnny, I love you so much.”_

John felt the wind knocked from his chest and he staggered back, “ _Mum?”_

The shape suddenly morphed into a military stance and a loud booming command, “ _Watson, drop your weapon! I said DROP it!”_

John shook his head and closed his eyes. He hadn’t heard the voice of his drill sergeant in almost two decades, “Stop it.”

The shape fell back to its normal state of ambiguity and the voices multiplied, “ _I am every voice you’ve ever heard. Every memory you’ve ever kept. Every emotion you’ve ever felt. Every breath you’ve ever taken. I am you and I am your truth.”_

John opened his eyes and slumped his shoulders forward, “Yeah, well if you wouldn’t mind _not_ doing that little trick, I’d appreciate it.” The being hummed and John stood up to his full height and challenged it, “Why are _you_ here?”

The dark being merely walked past him and touched the glass on one of the building’s windows with its smoky fingertips, “ _You have someone waiting on you, no?”_

“Here?” John pried as the glass began to swirl in its frame and fill with colors that made his head spin. His breath caught as the windowpane became a screen of memories all involving one person. “Oh.”

“ _Who is he?”_ The being asked as the glass was filled with an image of ebony hair and a brilliant smile that John remembered distinctly from the first time they touched each other in bed. His cheeks suddenly warmed at the thought of someone else viewing Sherlock’s post-love, dopey grin and debauched appearance and he bristled.

“You know very well who that is, Little _I-am_.” He wrapped his arms around his chest and found himself unable to take his eyes from the moving glass.

“ _Sher-lock,”_ the being hummed slowly, clicking on the hard consonant at the end. “ _He’s waiting for you. Why?”_

John chuckled mirthlessly and shrugged, “Well he’s going to be waiting a terribly long time I’m afraid. And because… because I- oh, don’t make me do this; you know what he is to me.”

“ _Don’t be so dull, John,”_ a familiar baritone said sharply and John’s face crumpled as he spun around and snapped at the shadow shaped like his best friend.

“No! You don’t get to do that- _stop it_!” He hollered as he felt tears welling behind his eyes and he scrubbed his sleeve at his face, “Anyone- you can be _anyone_ \- just not _him._ ”

Smoke swirled beneath transparent skin as the two watched the image ripple at the dark being’s touch and expose short clips of John’s memories- little glimpses of secret smiles and loving touches that made John’s non-beating heart ache with yearning.

“ _What is it like?_ ” The being asked, tracing a black finger over the image absently. “ _To have someone?”_

John sighed and shrugged, rubbing his hand on his neck as he watched the images change, “I don’t know. It’s… it’s brilliant and maddening and warm and sweet and it doesn’t make any sense. It’s an odd sensation where you just… _trust_ them. Even if you don’t trust anyone, you can trust _them_ and you don’t have to be around them all the time to know they care for you back because you just… _feel_ it every time they look at you or brush past you or call you an “idiot” because you know there’s never any animosity behind it. There’s nothing I can really relate it to- it’s just- and he’s… well, he’s _wonderful_.”

“ _Why?”_

John smirked as he looked at the dark being. If it was going to ask questions for eternity, he supposed he wouldn’t mind it asking about Sherlock, “He’s mad. Absolutely barking mad and arrogant and rude and a complete _arse_ when he wants to be, but he is so _wonderful_ ; literally _and_ figuratively. Look at those eyes,” he pointed as a picture of the detective sitting in his kitchen lab came across the screen. “Those eyes are full of _curiosity_. It’s like he can see the beauty in everything underneath the surface of it all that no one else pays attention to. He has to know _everything_ and he’s already so brilliant I don’t know where he’ll store the world of knowledge he wants but he always finds somewhere to stick it. And he’s… he soft.” He snorted and shook his head to himself, “Not really- he’s a bit of a wanker, but when he lets you in and you actually get to see… _him_ … it’s just… I can’t…” He chuckled and dipped his chin to his chest, “I suppose there’s no better feeling than being loved by someone who hates everyone. Well, I mean- I don’t think he _hates_ them. Maybe just strongly dislikes- except Anderson. No, I definitely think he hates Anderson.”

The shadows shrunk down and touched the glass again with his palm; the image swirling and morphing into the visage Sherlock donned just before John had pulled him down for their first kiss. His high cheeks were pinched against his cat eyes and his teeth were bared in a sad smile as he tried his damnedest to mollify the dying doctor, “ _You gave your life for his._ ”

John sniffed and turned away from the window, “I know.”

“ _Why?”_

“Because I _love_ him!” John bellowed in exasperation, covering his face with his palm as if hiding it from the shadow’s view. This _thing_ was now getting on his last nerve. “I _love_ him more than anything I’ve ever loved before. You _know_ that! _Everybody_ knows that! All of bloody _London_ knows it! And you _know_ I would do _anything_ to keep him safe.”

The shadow hummed as it touched the glass and the image rippled, “ _You would die?”_

John laughed angrily and gestured at his torso irately, “Well I’m _here,_ aren’t I?” He held two fingers to his throat and extended his wrist for the smoke’s examination. “Go on!” He bit sourly, narrowing his eyes at the dark being, “There’s nothing there! I’ve _checked._ ”

“ _Yes, you are here,”_ the shadow hummed, swiping its fingers over the glass until it returned to the shining white it had been just previously. “ _But you don’t belong here._ ”

John chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head dropping his hands, “If that’s not the story of my life, I don’t know what is.”

Suddenly the ground began to shake and John nearly lost his footing as the floor jolted against his feet. He jerked his face towards the shadow as he leaned back against the white building and braced himself for the sudden earthquake, “What- what is going on?”

“ _You don’t belong here,_ ” the smoke repeated, every voice in the multitude growling irately and causing John to back away slowly as the shadow grew to at least Sherlock’s height.

“ _You don’t belong here!”_

“Christ! I get it!” John snapped, pressing back against the wall as the ground jerked violently as if it had been struck with electricity, “I’ll go! I’ll _go_! Where do you want me to go _to_?”

Suddenly John cried out in agony as a smoky hand pressed against his chest, burning through the thin jumper and sizzling against his sternum. John screamed as the fire burned in his ribcage, but as he tried to bat the being away, the smoke just allowed his hand to pass through like a knife through hot butter. Tears welled in John’s eyes as the being’s hand dug into his chest up to the wrist and continued to push in, sparking fire in his entire frame.

Another shock to the foundation of their surroundings knocked John to his knees and as the shadow knelt down in front of him, it wrapped a hand around his throat.

“Stop… _please,_ ” John begged breathlessly between pained gasps as he felt the inferno rip through his chest and spread to his extremities.

“ _You don’t belong HERE,”_ the shadow insisted before John felt the burn of the smoke press against his mouth and exhale fire down his throat.

Suddenly the hands were removed from his throat and chest and John crumpled to the ground, struggling for breath. As he inhaled, fire seeped through his system and he could hear his throat rasping with heat as his brain was consumed in overwhelming feverishness.

Another shock jolted against the ground and John scratched at his chest with a groan until he felt something he hadn’t since he opened his eyes to this new world. Something near the area of his heart thrummed and pumped fire throughout his body, making him cringe on the ground in agony as it happened again and again.

_Dear GOD, what is going ON?_

He cried out as the shadow knelt back over him and repeated the phrase once more, breathing hot breath over his grimacing face.

“ _You don’t belong here… Not yet.”_

John crinkled his nose and breathed out, _“What?”_

The creature then placed both palms against his chest pressed down with the weight of a hundred men, blacking out John’s vision until he was surrounded by nothingness save a single sound that rang in his ears.

 

 

_Th-thump._

_Th-thump._

 

_Th-thump._

 

 

***

 

John Watson jerked his eyes open and tried in vain to breathe as something was obstructing his airway.

_Oh my GOD! EVERYTHING hurts! Christ! Oh my God, I can’t breathe!_

He swallowed and tried to wet his dry mouth, but it was to no avail and he’s eyes pinched tight and blinked profusely as he tried to focus on what was going on; panic welling in his burning chest.

_High pitched beeping. Mechanical thrumming. Too much. Too much. Can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!_

There was a sharp calling of his name before warmth pressed against his forehead and cheek and the mollifying sound of his favourite voice soothed at him.

“ _John!_ Oh my God, you’re _awake_! John, you’re all right, love. Look at me! Open your eyes and look at me.”

John painstakingly obliged and was greeted with a painfully familiar sight. Unruly dark hair stuck out at every angle and high cheeks pinched against burning blue eyes that creased in the most genuine smile he’d ever seen.

He blinked long and hard as he tried to focus on his lover’s face, but it only made everything spin, so he closed them again.

“No, John, look at me. You can do it.”

He felt his lashes flutter opened and then moist heat at his temple before his hazy eyes landed back on the familiar detective who smiled to the point his eyes watered.

“There you are. You wonderful, wonderful man,” he pressed another kiss to John’s brow before pulling back and holding out his palm in a placating manner. “John, you’re going to be all right, don’t panic. There’s a tube in your throat, so stay calm, okay? You’re going to be just _fine_ you beautiful, extraordinary idiot.”

John’s head swum as the familiar face vacated his reeling vision and before long there was another one- a woman as far as John could tell- arriving and pressing her cold hands against his brow.

“John, can you hear me?”

John did his best to flick his eyes to the voice, but struggled and eventually just blinked to express his comprehension.

“Good, my name is Doctor Danielle Straub. You’re in Saint Michael’s Hospital, do you know where that is? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

 _American? That’s odd._ John struggled to keep his eyes from staying shut, but he managed to flick his eyelashes once.

“Brilliant, John; you’re doing great. You’re a lucky man, you know. Your husband has been here with you day and night, even when we try and run him off.”

He furrowed his brow and blinked at her voice. _Husband? He didn’t have one of those._

“Look, we’re going to take out your ETT, alright? I need you to relax and not fight me while I do it, okay?”

He blinked once and felt the nauseating sensation of the _endotracheal tube_ being slowly removed from his throat and his eyes rolled back in his head with the uncomfortable sensation.

“Come on, stay awake for me, okay, John?”

The soldier forced his eyes open as the last bit of tube was pulled from his mouth and his sore throat shrunk back causing him to choke and cough weakly as fire ripped through his trachea.

He felt a warm palm rest against his forehead as his eyes closed and a sweet kiss to his cheek, “Relax, John. You’re all right; I’ve got you.”

The weak coughing continued until he tried to swallow and the burning sensation magnified exponentially making him gasp breathlessly.

“Isn’t there something you can _DO?”_ He heard the detective sternly drilled the doctor who pressed something cool to John’s lips.

“John, try and swallow this, all right? It’ll help with the sting.”

Cool liquid slipped down his tongue and he felt it drip down his throat until he coughed some of it up and the rest made it down his bruised throat, coating it with something cooling. _What is this? I’m a doctor, I should know. Fuck, I give up- this hurts._

He swallowed again and again, grimacing with every time before finally opening his eyes and finding himself looking up into a ceiling of lights and white panels.

“Sherlock, buzz me if you need anything. I’m getting a page from the ER. I think he’s fine for the moment, just keep him still and relaxed, okay? I’ll give you fellas a moment.”

There wasn’t an audible reply and John tried to turn his head to see the man sitting next to his bed before it finally struck him.

He was in a bed.

In a hospital.

Next to _Sherlock._

Not dead.

_NOT dead._

His eyes welled up and he could feel saline slip down his cheeks as a warm thumb wiped it away from underneath his eyes.

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed, pressing his lips to John’s forehead before pulling back and looking at the bloodshot navy eyes with a smile, “You’re all right, John. You’re safe now.”

 _I don’t understand_ , he meant to say. _What happened?_ He wanted to ask. However as he attempted to do so, his throat scratched and he bared his teeth in agony.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock shook his head, flattening John’s hair against his scalp. “Don’t try to speak. Come now, John, you’re a physician- think about it. You’ve had a tube shoved down your throat for five days. What do you _think_ is going to happen if you speak?”

_Five days? Christ!_

There was sudden warmth at John’s lips and he gasped at the unfamiliar contact. Sherlock was _kissing_ him. Sherlock was hot and alive and breathing and _kissing_ John. A tear slipped down his cheek again as he pressed his lips against Sherlock’s and smiled weakly.

“You’re safe now,” Sherlock whispered against his mouth just before pecking him once more and pulling away, cupping his cheek. “You stupid, stupid man.”

John smiled and mouthed “ _What happened?”_

Sherlock read the lips and shook his head, running a hand over the soft, golden hair again, “You tried to kill yourself in front of me, you _arse_.”

John furrowed his brow. He was a _doctor._ He’d known the moment the bullet passed through his ribs that he’d not make it to a hospital in time to save himself, so none of this made sense. He mouthed out another question.

“How are you not dead?” Sherlock read out loud incredulously, pinching his face tight. “Do you _want_ to be dead?”

John shook his head fervently and immediately regretted it, his head dipping into Sherlock palm as his mind swam.

“John, be _careful_ ,” Sherlock chided softly, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. “You lost quite a bit of blood, so you’re going to feel ill for a while. At least that’s what the doctor says. She also said you nearly ran them out of transfusions, you greedy thing.”

He narrowed his eyes. He had lost a _considerable amount_ of blood, so how was he not already in the ground?

“I carried you,” Sherlock said softly, his eyes warm and open as he gazed at John. “I found help and we got you to the hospital.” There was suddenly a choked sobbing noise and John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock who proceeded to dip his face into the mattress, “You _died_ , John. In my arms, you _died._ Your heart stopped beating and you weren’t breathing and I’ve never been so terrified in my _life_ and I didn’t know what I was going to do!” The detective rubbed his face in the sheets, and chuckled mirthlessly, “Seven minutes and fourteen seconds, John. You were legally _dead_ for _seven minutes_ and _fourteen seconds_ and that was the worst thing I have _ever_ experienced in my entire existence.”

_That is a LONG time to be down and still come back up again. No wonder you feel like utter shite._

Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his lips to John’s again as if he were terrified he would disappear (which in all likelihood, probably wasn’t an unjustified fear).

“You idiot,” he whispered against John’s lips between pecks. “You terrible, awful, stupid, wonderful, brilliant, lovely _idiot_.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s lips and slowly pulled his head back so that he could make eye contact.

“ _I love you_ ” he mouthed, causing Sherlock to smile ear to ear and pinch his eyes shut tight.

“And I love _you_ , John Watson,” he half-cried, wiping at his face with his free hand. “I love you so, _so_ much and I didn’t realize how much until you tried to take it away from me which you are _never_ allowed to do again, you selfish bastard!”

John smiled at Sherlock’s foul mouth and he felt his eyelids drooping with exhaustion.

“ _How long?”_ He asked soundlessly, his eyes flicking about Sherlock’s face. He was clean-shaven and clothed with a new outfit, but the bruises under his eyes were deep enough to warrant at least a few days without sleeping. Or well at least _five_.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “How long? How long have you been unconscious?”

John nodded slightly and Sherlock shook his head, “They did something to you- I don’t understand what exactly- but they put you into a coma-like state as soon as you got here and then you just didn’t _wake up_. You were supposed to wake back up within the next two days, but you didn’t and no matter what we did you just laid there like you’d given up and then you stopped _breathing_.” Sherlock’s voice cracked on the last word and his face dipped back into the mattress; his hand searched for John’s, gripping it tight as he found it. “You just stopped _breathing_. I was in here all alone and then your bloody machine went haywire and you just _gave up_ the most basic of life’s processes! And you didn’t wake up! John, I have been worried _sick_ for an entire week and a half that you were never going to.”

There was a stunted sob as if Sherlock was trying to restrain himself, and John could feel the larger man’s trembling through the bed as he watched the curls quiver on his head.

“John, you utter _bastard_ ,” he finally forced out, shaking his head against his sleeve and looking up with bloodshot eyes. “First you tried to kill yourself then you just _give up_ for _ten days_ , knowing full and well I was going to be at your side, waiting for you to come back to me, how could you- why would you- _Christ, John!”_

John was suddenly overcome with overwhelming warmth as the detective wrapped himself around him and pushed him back into the mattress, “I love you so much, John. I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you’re _alive._ Don’t you- don’t you _dare_ do that to me again. I will kill you _myself_ if you make me watch you die again.”

John shook his head and lifted one arm to wrap weakly around Sherlock’s chest, earning him a moan into his neck. He felt the warmth of teeth as Sherlock pinched his face in a sob, “John, I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. I thought you were never going to come to and all I wanted was for you to wrap your arms around me and tell me it was going to be all right.”

John smiled and inhaled Sherlock’s signature scent of spiced cologne and sweet skin before pushing him away slightly so that he could cup his cheek.

 _“Everything is going to be all right,”_ he mouthed, causing Sherlock’s jaw to tremble as he smiled and pressed down his lips for another chaste kiss.

There was a soft knock at the door and Sherlock jerked his head to discover the intruder.

“Mycroft!” He cried and John thought it was the first time he’d ever seen his friend actually _happy_ to see his older brother. “Mycroft, he’s awake! John’s _awake_!”

Mycroft smiled softly and nodded, “I can see that.” He then turned his attention to the doctor with tubes and cords hanging around his entire frame, “Hello, John. How does it feel to be amongst the living again? I must admit, you gave us quite the fright.”

He tried to answer before he remembered that he couldn’t and resorted to smiling at him weakly. Then his chin dipped against his shoulder and his eyes fluttered shut with exhaustion- _How can you be tired? You’ve been asleep for TEN DAYS. Wake UP._

“John?” Mycroft asked as John forced his eyes open and focused them on the tall man at the door who seemed to be suspiciously undulating.

He sucked in a heavy breath and Sherlock patted his rapidly paling cheek, “John? John, are you all right?”

The world turned on its side and he nodded- _up and down was yes, right?_

“Sherlock, you should let him sleep,” Mycroft suggested quietly, stepping forward and placing a freckled hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.

Sherlock pursed his lips as he looked back and forth between the politician and the doctor as if he were afraid to allow John back into the clutches of slumber before he sighed and rested a hand on John’s brow, “Get some rest, John. But- but not for long, please? I’ll be right here when you wake again. I promise.”

John smiled weakly as he felt the dark clutches of sleep tug at his frame and he gripped Sherlock’s hand in his to remind himself that Sherlock was alive and safe and _real_.

Sherlock sighed as he watched the navy eyes close and the doctor’s lips purse in sleep, before his brother lightly squeezed his shoulder, “He’ll be fine, Sherlock. He’s just going to sleep; not slipping back into a coma. You need to go _home_. You’ve been here for _days_.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked up at Mycroft sorrowfully. Truth was, he _had_ gone home for just one evening three days ago after Lestrade had practically carried him out of the hospital room himself. He’d slept for an hour before waking up to an empty Baker Street without John there and Sherlock couldn’t wash the sensation of John’s blood off of his hands thoroughly enough before having to return to the hospital and sleep by John’s side again. He needed to _see_ John breathing and he needed to _feel_ his beating heart or else his imagination supplied the images of John’s cold body and bluing lips to the forefront of his mind.

Mycroft sighed, but didn’t seem to argue with him, “Will you at least _eat_ something, little brother? How are you going to care for him if you can’t even stand?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and reluctantly nodded and stood to his feet, following the politician out of the room like a sullen schoolboy on his way to detention. It _had_ been a while since he’d been able to stomach the idea of solid food and he was certainly going to need a considerable amount of strength if he was to help John recover.

Sherlock flicked his eyes once more to the still doctor and sighed.

_Ten days down, only a hundred and seventy to go._

 

***

 

“I will _never_ appreciate hospital food,” John moaned as he picked up a spoonful of… _something_ and watched it flop back down to the tray with disgust. His voice had finally come back to him and now he was using it to complain about _everything_ just for the sake of having something to _do._

Sherlock smirked and stood up from his seat to press a soft kiss into John’s hair, “Shall I fetch you something less… um… well… You know- I wonder what kind of experiments I could do on that. It does look like it has enough preservatives to last the next year of fungus trials.”

John pushed the tray at him and crinkled his nose, “Have at it. I think they’re trying to starve me out.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” the detective teased, bending forward to press his lips to John’s for a moment longer than necessary before looking him in the eye. “I like that.”

John cocked a brow, “Hospital food?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed his lips to John’s again, his large palm slipping behind his head and through the soft golden hair as he deepened the kiss. John moaned softly into his mouth and Sherlock couldn’t contain his sweet smile as he pulled away and watched John lick his lips.

“Oh,” he replied quietly. “You mean _that.”_

John’s hand slipped up to cup the detective’s neck and pull him back down for another kiss, twisting his fingers in the dark curls happily. Sherlock chuckled into John’s kiss which caused the contagious emotion to spread and soon they were laughing more than they were kissing.

“What does summer taste like?” Sherlock suddenly pried pulling away slightly just to peck at John’s lips and gaze into his eyes.

John furrowed his brow in confusion, “I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s once more and exhaled into his mouth, causing the doctor to groan before he opened his eyes and moved back, “When you kissed me the first time, you said I tasted like summer. What does that taste like?”

John crinkled his nose. _Did he really say that? Surely such a bloody SAPPY phrase would have never escaped HIS lips._ He then smiled and pulled Sherlock back down, murmuring against his mouth, “I don’t know. Let me remind myself.”

There was no argument from the detective who felt hot breath infiltrate his person as the doctor lapped at his lips, twisting the dark curls and pressing Sherlock closer to him until the detective was almost on top of the hospital bed _with_ him.

There was a curt clearing of someone’s throat that caused Sherlock to look up and back away from the doctor like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit jar as a nurse flitted about in the room and took John’s vitals for the umpteenth time that day and then flitted right back out, leaving Sherlock flushing and John rolling his eyes at her bedside manner.

“Honey.”

Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention and flicked his eyes back down to John, “What?”

John smiled and extended his hand to Sherlock who took it immediately, “Summer tastes like honey and citrus and earth and wind.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, _“Earth?_ You’re saying I taste like _dirt_?”

John narrowed his eyes. _That wasn’t what he meant_. “What? No. Like earthy- you know? Like…” _What better word was there to describe ‘Earthy?’_ “Like… Earth?”

Sherlock cocked a brow, “Earthy… like… _Earth?_   John, are you always this articulate?”

John huffed hot breath at him and rolled his eyes, “Oh, bugger it.”

Sherlock smiled and bent forward to John’s lips again, “Well if you like dirty mouths, I’m certain I can oblige.”

John chuckled against Sherlock’s lips and pressed one long kiss there before pulling back, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock replied, raking a hand over the soft golden hair. “Let me fetch you something then, hmm? I’m sure you’re famished what with…” He glanced at the congealed… _something_ , “your thriving variety of delicatessen meals here.”

John rolled his eyes and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles before he watched the dark suit-clad man walk out of his room.

It had been three days since he’d woken up and he still had no clue how he’d survived the shot to his chest. By all accounts, it made no sense, but he wasn’t going to be ungrateful. Whoever was in control of the cosmos had decided to give him a second chance and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

He had _Sherlock._ He was able to move and breathe and hold and touch and _kiss_ the most important man on Earth as if it were an everyday occurrence. _Thank God._ Thank _someone_ for taking pity on his wonderful detective’s soul and bringing him back from the clutches of death.

The question was though: was what John saw a figment of his coma’s imagination or the seven minutes and fourteen seconds he ceased to exist? At the end of one’s life, was there really only the bleak emptiness of white walls and the shadow of their memories to keep them company? John chewed his cheek as he thought about it but he soon decided that he would never actually know for sure.

He leaned back into his bed and rested his eyes for just a moment before he heard the familiar _swoosh_ of Sherlock’s Belstaff being swung from around his shoulders and placed on the chair he’d been occupying for two weeks on end.

“Wake up, John!”

“I _am_ awake,” John gurgled groggily, rubbing at his face as a paper delivery bag was plopped on his lap. It was terribly heavy and it made him _oomf_ with the impact, clutching tenderly at his side.

“Oh my God, John!” Sherlock suddenly placated, hands fluttering around him as if he didn’t know where to put them.

“I’m fine!” John choked out, smiling weakly at the distraught detective and nodding. “I’m fine. What the hell _is_ this?”

Sherlock smirked and pulled his chair close to John’s bed, “Angelo was less than thrilled to hear you were in the hospital _and_ being exposed to such lackluster cuisine so he supplied you with enough pasta to last a lifetime and a half.”

John laughed and his navy eyes shined down at the detective, “Angelo is certainly one of a kind.”

“He is,” Sherlock agreed quietly, standing up to pull a take-out box from the bag and perch it on the hospital tray before setting the bag back down on the floor.

John tucked into it immediately and hummed at the very _not_ hospital food, “You need to eat, too, Sherlock. You’re going to wither away on me.”

The detective smiled and rested his hand on John’s arm, “I assure you, there is no danger of that. I’m fine, I promise.”

John rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself.”

The detective smiled and watched John eat some sort of pasta covered in red sauce- _does everything Italian have a bloody name?_ It was terribly comforting just to see that the doctor was eating because that meant he was _all right_. He’d worried so much that his doctor would never again see the light of day and now instead, he was getting better every day. He could walk a bit and speak and _breathe-_ God, Sherlock had never thought breathing was important until John’s battered body _stopped doing it. Then_ it was the most important thing in the world and Sherlock had just wished he could breathe life back into the doctor himself.

“You all right, there?”

That pulled Sherlock from his reveries so he looked up to John who smiled at him and pushed the tray away as he leaned back in his bed with a quiet groan, “You look troubled.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly and bent forward to press his lips to John’s, tasting the remnants of his meal. He promised he would _never_ let a day pass where he didn’t touch these wonderful, _warm_ lips for as long as he lived.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Sherlock finally whispered against his skin to which John replied with a smile.

“I _am_.” He groaned internally at the odd vision he’d had, didn’t show his irritation to the detective.

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly widened as his jaw dropped, “Oh!” John stretched forward as Sherlock dunked beneath the bed frame and sat back up with a package in his hands.

“Happy Christmas, John,” he said softly extending the tenderly wrapped package gently to John who seemed perturbed by the sentiment. “What?”

“It’s Christmas?” John asked, searching around the room for an indicator of the day since he’d certainly had no idea when it was.

Sherlock smiled sadly and nodded, “Honestly, I was afraid you were going to miss it.”

John clutched the small blue package to his chest and frowned, “I haven’t… well…”

Sherlock shook his head fervently and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips, “No, no, I don’t want anything. There’s nothing I need besides you. You came back and that’s- that’s more than I could have hoped for in a thousand lifetimes.” He shrugged, “Besides, it’s nothing really; more of a token than a gift.”

John thinned his lips before he caught the cat eyes creased in a genuine smile at him. His guilt subsided and he laid the present on his lap, patting on the bed as he scooted over a bit, “Come up here. I don’t like you being all the way down there.”

Sherlock smiled and did as requested, lowering the small bar and setting his hips besides John’s facing him. He gestured at the blue packaged and smiled, “Well go on. Get this sentimental nonsense out of the way so that we can return to life in the _normal_ season.”

John rolled his eyes and flicked them to the detective before his fingers traced the package and he slipped one finger beneath the tape, preventing the paper from ripping as he unfolded it and revealed what was inside. He smiled as his fingertips felt the soft leather of a journal with a small _SH_ at the bottom right-hand corner of the cover.

“You keep a journal?” He asked, tracing the small golden letters as Sherlock shrugged.

“It’s a book. You _like_ books, so I thought you might want to _read_ a book.”

John snorted at the turn of phrase and flipped the cover open to reveal, not paragraphs of thoughts- but _lists_. He furrowed his brow as he read through the first page all of… _favourites._

“I don’t,” he whispered, turning page after page to find them all filled with lists of Sherlock’s spidery scrawl. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him when he turned and was instead examining his cuticles which he proceeded to pick at absently, “You said you wanted to know all the extraneous details about me. All the little bits of useless knowledge that no one really needs to know. Well,” John’s heart lurched as he saw the detective’s face pinch as if he were holding back tears. “Well, I didn’t think you were ever going to be able to ask me. You _died a_ nd then you just stopped _being_ and I didn’t think you’d ever give yourself the chance to ask your stupid questions so I made up my own and I- I wanted you to have them even if…”

Sherlock’s palm suddenly covered his face as he pinched his eyes tight and shook his head. John’s heart warmed at the heartfelt sentiment this man was giving him in the form of a book.

 _Even if you had to bury them with me,_ he supplied silently.

He looked down at the soft paper and noticed the was the pen was half-way smeared as if the side of his hand had run over each word a hundred times, checking for perfection. Sherlock had wanted John to know all about him and had made the effort to make sure that happened, even if he’d had to bury the book six feet beneath the ground. Sherlock had sat up all day and night at John’s bedside writing these stupid lists just so John could have the answers he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock hiccupped, one arm wrapped around his chest and the other still on his face. He shook his head and mumbled into his palm, “Christmas is supposed to be happy and here I am being _ridiculous_.”

John leaned forward, grinding his teeth as he did so, and pulled at Sherlock’s wrist, exposing Sherlock’s flushed face and watering eyes. His released the wrist and cupped the nape of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a sweet kiss before pulling back and smiling at the man on the brink of tears, “You stupid man. This is… it’s wonderful. This is beautiful.” He smiled and ran his thumb over the prominent cheekbone, “But you know what’s even more wonderful?”

Sherlock pursed his brow as he searched John’s face for an answer that never came and shrugged, earning him another kiss from John, who whispered against his lips, _“I still get to ask you.”_

Sherlock’s face crumpled and he nodded, resting his face in the crook of John’s neck and panting into the soft skin, “I know. _I know_.”

Who had been the moron to say this man couldn’t _feel_? Who had honestly been the person to convince the brilliant detective in John’s arms that he wasn’t capable of _love_? John gripped Sherlock tight to his chest and kissed his temple. He would spend the rest of his life proving to Sherlock that he was more than capable and _deserving_ of all of that. Love, trust, affection- he was more than worthy of every little bit.

John felt slight dampness on his cheeks as Sherlock pressed another kiss to his lips and hiccupped against him, earning him a light chuckle from the doctor. The detective sucked in a deep breath and leaned back, wiping his sleeves at his face and running a hand through his messy hair, “Yes, well- ahem- now you have all the answers to your stupid nonsense questions.”

John smiled and flicked open one of the pages, reading down it for something interesting. He chuckled and looked back up, “Your favourite children’s book is _The Hobbit_?”

Sherlock flushed and nodded, looking down, “Our father used to read it to us to help us sleep and I- when I was little, I had trouble speaking so my father would narrate and have me repeat it. It was the first story I ever read out loud on my own.”

John smiled and looked back down into the book, “Mine, too.” He then looked up to see Sherlock half-smiling, “I didn’t know you had a speech problem.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I could read and write before Mycroft could, but I couldn’t make my mouth form the words I was writing. It wasn’t like I didn’t comprehend it; I just couldn’t spit the _sounds_ out. I didn’t even speak my own name till I was four.”

John snorted and looked into the journal, “And _now_ we can’t get you to shut up.”

Sherlock chuckled and rolled his eyes as John pointed out another item, “Your favourite spice is saffron? What did you do; just write down anything that came to mind?”

The detective shrugged, “It kept me occupied.”

John hadn’t thought about that. Sherlock went ballistic without having something to do for _a_ day, much less _ten_ of them while he was concerned about his unconscious best friend in the bed to his side. He must have been going _mad_ with such little input. No wonder this journal was jam-packed with hundreds of lines of items.

“Is there an index for this thing?” John teased, flipping through some more pages and asking about little tidbits of information that caught his eye, listening to Sherlock explain and clarify each item with enthusiasm and honest self-expression.

John had been so afraid he’d never hear the detective’s ramblings again, but now he could close his eyes and revel in the mollifying sound of his sweet baritone.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John eventually said after Sherlock finished explaining why his favourite hour of the day was seven ‘o’ clock in the evening.

Sherlock lowered his hands from his gesturing and smiled back, “Happy Christmas, John.”

John lifted the book and motioned to it, “Thank you. For this, I mean. And well, for everything else.”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s for a sweet, languid kiss and rested his forehead against the doctor’s, “You’re welcome. Thank you for coming back.”

“I wouldn’t have without you,” he admitted, pecking the Cupid’s bow and leaning back in his bed. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiled and lifted John’s hand to his lips before clutching it tightly in his own, “I love you, too. Please let me spend my life proving it to you.”

“You don’t have to prove _anything_ ,” John insisted, gripping Sherlock’s hand back. “But there is nothing I want more than to give you that.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied, flicking his eyes to their clasped hands and smiling.

“That’s… really good.”

 

 

***

 

“Sherlock, wait-”

The detective spun around on the staircase as John called out and was at his side immediately as the doctor gripped at his side, “John? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

John smiled weakly and pinched his eyes tight with pain, “I’m fine- I just- could you…?”

Sherlock searched the doctor’s face for any signs of major distress, but finding none, he dropped the bags in his hands and wrapped an arm around the struggling doctor, half-carrying him up the rest of the stairs and depositing him gently on the couch. He pressed his lips to John’s hair just before padding back out into the stairwell to pick up their bags and new groceries.

John groaned quietly as he tried to resituate himself of their couch and Sherlock tutted him from the kitchen, “You are just going to hurt yourself and I’m never going to hear the end of it if you don’t stop moving around like that.”

John rolled his eyes and leaned against the armrest, “I am _doctor_ , Sherlock. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, well you make for a _terrible_ patient,” Sherlock teased softly, flicking his eyes towards the doctor as he put the newest addition of groceries up.

“Physicians normally do,” John huffed back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll have you know that you owe me a new one.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he shut the refrigerator door and turned back to the doctor, “Owe you a new _what_?”

“A new _spleen_ ,” John teased, widening his eyes with good-natured humor. “You know? That little _thing_ that I lost when I _heroically_ dove in front of that speeding bullet to save your life.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and padded in front of John and bent forward, pressing his lips to the full, healthy, pink ones that the doctor had finally regained, “I suppose I’ll need to make a point of finding one. Perhaps for a birthday present.”

John snorted, “Oh I can hardly wait.”

Sherlock hummed and pressed their lips together, pressing John gently down into the furniture and deepening the kiss until John began to pant against his skin.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, running a hand through the unruly locks and looking up at the brilliant heterochromia eyes, “I forgot to ask you.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, lowering his lips to John’s jaw and sucking tenderly at the supple skin as the soldier bucked beneath him straddling him to the couch.

“The doctor, Straub I think,” he panted, extending his neck and gasping as a warm tongue slipped up his jugular vein, “You knew her. How?”

“Ah,” Sherlock huffed, pulling back so that he could look John in the eye. “She helped save your life. She was there when I brought you out of that building.”

“Hmmm,” John hummed. _That made sense. Sherlock wouldn’t trust anyone unless they’d done something radical to earn it. “_ Why did she think I was your husband?”

Sherlock stiffened and lowered his gaze as he leaned back on his heels, “I… I didn’t know what else to do. You were bleeding out and not breathing and I know that society views married couples as more connected and important so I called you that so I could get more urgent help. I didn’t want to risk it. And it was the only way they'd let me stay in your room. I apologize if that bothers you.”

John shook his head and raised his hand to cup the detective’s cheek, “Absolutely not. Thank you, Sherlock, you saved my life.” He pulled the detective down and breathed into his lips, “You beautiful, brilliant man. I would only be honored if people thought you asked me to marry you.”

Sherlock smiled and twitched his brow, “Maybe one day if you decide my research isn’t enough to scare you off.”

“Oh, I think I can handle _that_ much,” John teased, cupping Sherlock’s neck and kissing him again. _God, he would never get tired of this._

“You taste like a warm day in winter,” Sherlock finally mumbled against his lips eliciting a snort on John’s part. _They were starting to get terribly abstract in their descriptions._

“And how is that?” He teased, pecking a kiss to Sherlock’s nose and leaning his head back to focus on his face.

He could tell Sherlock’s cheeks were burning just by the amount of heat they were radiating and the detective spoke softly as if embarrassed, “I don’t know. I guess like tea and warmth and mint and resilience.”

“Resilience?” John quirked a brow, “That doesn’t sound like it would taste very good.”

“It does,” Sherlock promised, stealing another kiss and running his hand through the soft sandy hair. “You taste like strength and bravery. I missed it while you were away.”

John smiled softly and let his hand trace a line down the detective’s jaw to his sternum, “I’m sure you did.”

He suddenly pinched his face tight and gasped, clutching at his side as Sherlock jerked up and knelt beside him, “John? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” John promised through clenched teeth, waving his free hand flippantly. “I- _fuck_ \- help me up.”

Sherlock rested one palm at John’s back and gripped his hand with the other, pulling him slowly to a sitting position and watching him with eyes wide with concern.

“I just need to- ah!- be careful, that’s all,” he mumbled with tight lips, his eyes still pinched tight. He chuckled, “Not as young as I used to be.”

“But younger than you ever will be again,” Sherlock supplied, earning an eye roll from the doctor who pulled himself back against the armrest and patted his thigh.

“Go grab a pillow and come here,” He said softly, smiling as the detective’s eyes lit up and he jumped to his feet, returning quickly with a pillow from his bed and resting it on John’s lap. He climbed carefully onto the couch and rested his head on John’s legs, looking up at him as the doctor’s hand began to card through his hair. He exhaled shakily and closed his eyes as he reveled in the sensation of _peace_ as John’s other hand rested on his sternum.

“Do you prefer the term handsome or beautiful?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and quirked a brow, “What?”

“You’re both,” John said softly, straightening out Sherlock’s curls and watching them bounce back against his head, “but I want to know what to call you.”

Pale cheeks flushed bright red and Sherlock thinned his lips, “I- um… I don’t know. I’ve never put much thought into it.”

John smiled, “That’s because no one’s ever brought your attention to it.” His hand flattened against Sherlock’s brow and pressed the fringe back gently, “But you _are_ , Sherlock. And you deserve to be reminded of it every day.”

The blush only spread and Sherlock cleared his throat, making the conscious effort _not_ to meet John’s eyes, “Well- erm- uh- thank you. That’s unnecessarily kind to- um- say.”

“Not kind,” John disagreed, his fingertips drawing nonsensical lines and circles on his lover’s chest. “Just honest.”

John was practically _sweating_ with the heat Sherlock was giving off and smiled, reaching forward to tap the buttons on the remote to change the telly stations, humming with discontentment, “Do you feel like crap telly or crap telly?”

Sherlock smiled and hummed, “Hmmm, I suppose crap telly will have to do.”

John grinned down at him and settled on some “true-life” crime film, allowing his finger to resume their ministrations through Sherlock’s hair. There was a snort and John looked down to see Sherlock’s familiar face of disgust, “What?”

“They act as if they’re bind,” he complained, gesturing to the screen. “The man’s an obvious Neo-Nazi and he’s been to Russia within the last week or so. He’s _obviously_ the culprit and yet their questioning _him_ as a _witness_! It’s a wonder that society hasn’t gone belly up with the severe incompetence of the criminal justice system.”

John smiled and sighed happily, “What about that woman? The police officer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “She’s _obviously_ been sleeping with the Captain. Look at the condition of her _knees_! Come now, John. Haven’t you learned _anything_?”

John chuckled and closed his eyes as he absorbed contentment through his very pores.

This was Baker Street how it was meant to be. Not white; not empty; and certainly not without both the detective and his doctor. He twisted a curl in his fingertips and smiled.

 

“Teach me more.”


	16. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Explicit sexual scenes and frightening powerplay

For a three-and-a-half-foot tall four-year-old, there are few games more entertaining than “Hide Away”. Such was the same for the little mop-topped pirate crouching in the cupboard behind the brooms. Brilliant green eyes flicked to the shadows on the floor as the terrible, corrupt Captain of the British Royal Navy crept near his hideout.

“Sherlock, I know you’re out here somewhere. Mummy wants you in the kitchen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and remained silent as he had been for the whole of his existence. _Of COURSE Mummy wanted him in the kitchen. She could keep an eye on him in there- but what fun was THAT?_

Socked feet whispered against the wooden floors and he prepared himself for the offensive attack as he heard the closet door click…

“Ah! _Sherlock_!” Mycroft hollered as he was toppled over by guerilla warfare. The little boy with curly black hair giggled as Mycroft’s eleven-year-old face turned bright red. “Sherlock, what are you _doing_? Get off me!”

The red-head sat up and sternly placed Sherlock on his lap; his expression stern, but his eyes soft, “Are you playing ‘Pirates’ again?”

Cat eyes gleamed as he nodded his head fervently and Mycroft sighed with a smile, pulling him up by his arms and standing him up straight as he rose to his feet, “It’s rather boring playing by yourself, isn’t it?”

Knowing exactly what Mycroft was about to do, Sherlock nodded his little head until half of the little black curls fell into his face. Baby blue eyes creased softly at him as Mycroft knelt down before him, meeting his eye, “ _Well_ , I _suppose_ we could fit in one more game before dinner, but you have to do something for me in return, okay?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side; his eyes searching Mycroft’s flushed face for an answer until he was given one, “Say ‘Mycroft’.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head, lowering his gaze to the floor before Mycroft lifted it up by his chin, “Sherlock, you’re four years old; you have to start speaking _eventually_. I’ll say it with you: ‘My-Croft.’”

The little boy thinned his lips and Mycroft repeated the expression until something came to his mind, “Can you hum at least? _Ah-ah_.” He hummed one high note then a lower one, and then gestured at Sherlock, “ _Ah-ah_. Try it; I’ll play with you if you do. I know you _can_ do it; you’re just being stubborn. _Ah-ah_.”

Sherlock seemed to roll that around in his mind for a moment before he covered his mouth with his hands and hummed back, “ _Mmm, mmm_.”

The older Holmes’ face lit up like a torch and he smiled, “Yes! Brilliant! Do it again! _Ah-ah.”_

“ _Mmm, mmm,_ ” Sherlock hummed, his face turning bright red. He didn’t like the sound of his own voice, that’s why he didn’t use it. His voice was terribly high pitched and obnoxious and people could barely stand to be around him anyhow; why would he want to irritate them _further_ with his nauseating squeaking?

Mycroft smiled and rested a hand on his shoulder, “Good, that’s really good, Sherlock. Try this: ‘ _My-Croft._ ’ Same sounds: ‘ _My-Croft_ ’.”

Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes. Mycroft was a rather terrible player as it were and this was a _considerable_ amount of work to gain a playmate, but he _was_ a bit bored and Mycroft wasn’t the _worst_ British Royal Navy Captain he’d ever met. He lowered his chin and focused on his lips, “Mmm.” He could feel his jaw trembling and he was surprised to find that he was having trouble just _spitting out_ the sound. It was _two_ syllables; certainly two syllables wasn’t _that_ hard to form in one’s mouth. “Mmm.”

He furrowed his brow and lowered his gaze to the ground. He _could_ speak. He’d done it before alone in his room so why was this so hard? “Mmm.” It felt like there was a bubble in his mouth that was harder than chewing gum but softer than a bouncing ball and he started to flush with frustration. _“Mmmm!”_

A hand ruffled his hair and he looked up to see Mycroft smiling down at him, “That’s close enough. Good job. Go on, I’ll count to ten.”

Sherlock grinned wide and happily as he turned on his heel and sprinted down the hallway. He grinned as he found his little secret stairway that led into the attic, based in a servant’s hall behind the walls, and climbed up into the top of the Victorian house with the greatest of ease. That dog of the military would _never_ find him there!

“ _Nine. Ten! Ready or not, here I come!”_

He clapped his hands over his mouth as he silently closed the door of the China cabinet he was occupying until the thought struck his mind. He hadn’t shut the wall! Mycroft would certainly find it and this would be the shortest game ever. How hateful!

“ _Really, Sherlock?”_ He heard mumbled down the hall as his big brother found the crack in the wall panel. “ _Christ, you know what? Whatever. I know a naughty little pirate that’s not going to get any pudding for making his big brother climb all these stairs!”_

Sherlock giggled quietly as he peered out of the little crack he left open and he heard Mycroft’s feet quietly climb the few flights of stairs into the attic. He was then greeted by a very flushed looking young boy that finally cleared the stairs and leaned hard against the doorframe, clutching at his chest, “God, you _are_ a bloody pirate. You _know_ I shouldn’t-” he interrupted himself with a harsh cough before straightening himself and pressing against his chest, “-you _know_ I shouldn’t be up here around all this dust. I am most _certainly_ going to throw you in the most appalling brig I can find when I get a hold on you.”

Sherlock remained silent and watched as his older brother crept around, looking above and below random pieces of art and wooden furniture items as his wheezing seemed to worsen.

“Gotcha!” He hollered as he jerked up a sheet from over an old desk and engulfed himself in a rather opaque cloud of dust that exploded into his face. He coughed and sputtered as he tried to wave it away and backed up, clumsily tripping over a chair and causing another cloud of dust to settle on him as his body hit the dirty ground. His blue eyes fluttered as he tried to blink the filth away and he finally pulled himself to his feet and hurried to the far end of the room away from the clouds of dust; clutching at his chest as he began to cough more violently and his torso looked as if it were caving in on him.

Mycroft swallowed and leaned heavily against a large, oak Grandfather clock, running a hand through his hair and stretching his head up as if to extend his throat, “Sherlock, look I give up. I’m not…” He wheezed as he coughed and his head spun, “Come out. I’ll play with you downstairs, but I can’t stay up here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft was such a _baby_ sometimes. Just because the doctor said he had something wrong with his lungs- _what was it? Severe ‘Asthma’? That’s a silly word_. - didn’t mean he could just flake out on playing. _What a rubbish big brother._

“Sherlock, I’m not kidding, I can’t…” Sherlock was shocked to see Mycroft’s form suddenly slump to the ground as he clutched at his chest. His blue eyes pinched and he bared his teeth as a strange, raspy sound escaped his throat. “ _Shhher…”_

The little pirate cocked his head and frowned. _That didn’t sound right…_

Sherlock quietly stepped out of his hideout and padded over to his big brother whose eyes seemed unable to decide if they wanted to stay open. His mouth was wide open as he gasped and his head leaned against the thick wood of the clock, so Sherlock clapped softly to announce his presence. Mycroft flicked his eyes up and twitched his lip in a smile.

“You dreadful bandit…” His voice sounded like he was battling against his throat for dominance and Sherlock crinkled his nose at the odd sound. “Sherlock, I need my medicine… Do you- Christ- do you know where it is?”

_Your medicine? Do you mean like cough syrup? I know where that is, but I thought we shared it?_

He shook his head and Mycroft groaned before he inhaled another wheeze, “Christ, you…” He flicked up his middle three fingers on his right hand and patted them against his left palm: _Mother_. “Go get Mummy, Sherlock. Don’t,” he made an odd squeak in his throat and pinched his eyes closed. “Ah, don’t be… frightened Sherlock; it’ll be… okay, I just… need you to get… Mummy.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with fear. Mycroft didn’t say it was “going to be okay” unless it really _wasn’t_ going to be okay. He nodded and ran down the steps and out into the hall, slipping over the slight step on the floor from the wall and busting his lip on the wooden floor. He felt his eyes well up from the pain but he stood back up and ran into the kitchen and began to tug sharply on his mother’s apron until she turned around. Her soft face pinched in a grimace as she took in Sherlock’s appearance and she turned to kneel down before him. Dark curls bounced and bright blue eyes creased as she pursed her lips at him and shook her head.

“Goodness, Sherlock! What’s happened to you? You’re filthy!” Her bell-toned voice called as she ran a hand through his dark locks and sprinkled balls of dust everywhere around him, trying to clean it out of his hair. She then slipped a rag from the stove and dampened it with her tongue before wiping tenderly at Sherlock’s lip, “You must be more careful, love. You’re going to _really_ hurt yourself one day!”

The little boy swatted her hands away and shook his head, pulling at her wrist with all of his might until he fell back on his backside with an _oomf_.

She smirked and cocked a brow, “Sherlock, do you want something? Use _words_. You must _tell_ me what you want.”

 _Mycroft! Mycroft_! His mind screamed but his mouth only obeyed marginally, “Mmm! Mmm!”

Violet Holmes smiled and ruffled his hair, dispelling dust all over the floor, “Good! Spectacular, Sherlock! Keep trying!”

Sherlock huffed and stood back to his feet, yanking at her wrist while he forced his mouth to comply. His big brother was obviously in trouble and he didn’t have time to waste on stupid words. “Mmm! _Mmmy_!” _Well that wasn’t THAT hard._

Violet’s face lit up as his scowled, “ _My_? That’s wonderful, sweetheart! You’ll have to let your father hear that! Your first word; oh, he’ll be so impressed! Now let’s get you cleaned up for dinner, love.”

She stood and flicked the stove off, but Sherlock droned his displeasure and clapped to get her attention again; his high-pitched voice ringing, “My! My! My!”

She smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead, “Well you are certainly proud of your new word, aren’t you?”

Frustrated, he shook his head and started to rub his fists together at the knuckles: _Brother_. “My! My! _My!”_

Violet blinked and slowly brushed her knuckles together as she tried to remember what her older son had shown her of the sign language he had taught his little brother to communicate. “ _Brother…_? Sherlock, is there something wrong with Mycroft?”

Sherlock nodded his head fervently and pulled on her wrist again; using the only word he could muster to persuade her, “My! My!”

She stood to her full height and let Sherlock drag her to the open panel in the wall and she gasped, “Sherlock! You shouldn’t be playing in the walls! I’ve told you about this!”

“ _My!”_ He replied irately as he ducked beneath the panel and bounded up the stairs. As he finally made it to the landing he crinkled his nose as he found his brother asleep on the floor. They had only gotten up a few hours ago and Mycroft didn’t have to take naps, so he couldn’t possibly be _that_ tired already. He bent forward and shook Mycroft’s shoulder, attempting to rouse him with his new found word, “My. _Myyy.”_

The older boy refused to budge and Sherlock shook his shoulder again, anxiety building in his tummy, “My. _Myyyyy!_ ”

He jerked his head up as he heard a gasp and suddenly their mother was next to him patting his brother’s dirty face, “Mycroft? Mycroft, love, wake up. You _know_ you shouldn’t be up here!” She rested her fingers between his jaw and his throat, bending her head forward as she placed her cheek at Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock could see tears well up in her eyes as she cried out, “Oh my God, _Mycroft!”_

The curly-topped boy watched curiously as she ripped her hand from his neck and scooped the eleven-year-old in her arms; his arm and head dangling unnaturally from her grip as she hurried down the stairs and he could hear her calling out Sherlock’s name as if she were terribly upset.

“ _Sherlock, get down here! Look, sweetheart, you’re going to be just fine. Come on; wake up for me. Mycroft, dear, BREATHE!”_

He then heard her panicked voice on the phone calling for something called an “ambulance” as the thought hit his dusty little brain:

_Were Mycroft’s lips supposed to be blue…?_

 

***

 

Sherlock woke with a start and immediately sat up his bed, pressing his large hand against his bare chest and feeling himself _breathe_.

It had been a _terribly_ long time since the thought of his first word had crossed his mind and seeing his brother’s young, motionless body _still_ sent an oily sensation into his gut even thirty-some-odd years later. He ran a hand through his hair, dispelling the nonexistent dust, and puffed out his cheeks as he looked around the room. _You’re all right. It was just a dream- and not even a bad one._

He sighed and turned to the sleeping man on his left; flat on his back with one arm covering his chest and the other arched above his head, his thin lips parted slightly. Sherlock settled somewhat until he looked at John’s chest, bare save the bandage at his side, and its lack of movement in any direction. He held his breath as he listened for the slight snore on the inhale that John was notorious for, but was unsettled as silence greeted his request. He lifted one palm and gripped John’s shoulder gently before shaking him slightly and whispering, “John… _John.”_

The motion elicited no reaction from his companion and Sherlock’s pulse rose with every time he shook the broad shoulders more and more fervently, “John… John, wake up. Come on.”

There was then a sharp inhale and John’s eyebrows reached his hairline as he stretched his legs down and Sherlock’s chest relaxed. The doctor’s eyes opened up and he blearily searched for the source of his untimely consciousness, “Sh’lock? You all right?” He rubbed at his face as he leaned up on his elbow, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock exhaled in relief and shook his head, sliding back underneath the covers and resting his hand on John’s chest, “Nothing, love. I’m sorry I woke you.”

John hummed and flopped back down on the mattress sleepily, dragging his hand down his face, “Did you dream something?”

Sherlock nodded and shifted so that his head rested on John’s pectoral, “Nothing malevolent; just an old memory.”

John smiled as his eyes shut and he wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s bare back, “Care to share?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nuzzled against the sleep-warmed skin, “The first time I tried to kill my brother.”

The doctor snorted softly and pressed his lips into the messy hair with a sigh, “I’m sure he deserved it. How old were you?”

Sherlock flinched, “Four.”

John chuckled and the warm sound mollified the anxious detective, “Attempted murder before you could even speak. That’s rather impressive, Sherlock.”

The detective rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around John’s chest, earning him a happy hum from the doctor, “What was your first word, John?”

John cocked an eyebrow and looked down at the detective, “You’re not telling me you learned a word and subsequently attacked your brother, are you?”

 _Well it wasn’t EXACTLY like that._ Sherlock harrumphed and shook his head, “Never mind.”

John chuckled and hummed as he thought about it, “I think it was like ‘ _Mum’_ or something else boring like that.” He sucked his teeth and nodded, “Yeah that was it. I remember Harry telling me that Mum was absolutely chuffed about it, but Dad, not so much. Perhaps that’s what started the whole thing between them.” He smiled and kissed Sherlock’s hair. “What was yours that was obviously so horrible you attacked your brother?”

Sherlock hummed and pressed his hip against John’s as he scooted closer, “It was his name.”

“How adorable,” John teased and Sherlock tensed up on his side. He noticed immediately and pursed his lips in concern, “What?”

Sherlock kept his gaze on the light dusting of fair hair on John’s chest as he spoke, “It was because I couldn’t wake him up. He had a severe asthma attack while playing with me and then he ceased breathing and collapsed.”

John stilled and gripped Sherlock closer to his chest. No wonder the detective had reacted so badly to John forgoing his ability to respire in the hospital. That was probably why he’d woken him up just now; just to make _sure_ he _was_ breathing, “I didn’t know Mycroft was asthmatic.”

Sherlock shrugged against John’s torso, “I don’t think he is anymore. I think he grew out of it, but it was rather critical for a while. One spring he was barely able to leave the house because it had rained so much and the plants had multiplied exponentially. I used to get so angry with him because I’d be bored out of my mind and he’d refuse to go outside with me.”

A warm hand cupped his upper arm and Sherlock looked up to see John smiling at him, “You were a child; you didn’t understand what was wrong with him. And besides, tons of kids are asthmatic and grow out of it; I’m sure you’re not the first hyperactive little brother to send someone to the hospital.”

“Well, when you say it like _that_ ,” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as John hugged him tighter to his chest.

“You know, I knew a girl once who tossed her little brother out of a window and broke his arm. Then his parents told him it was _his_ fault for starting the fight.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “Certainly initiating a row doesn’t warrant a broken arm. How old were they?”

John hummed and ran a hand through the back of Sherlock’s curls, “Hmmm, I think the girl was sixteen and he was fourteen. It was odd because he was taller and stronger than her, but she still managed to give him a concussion and a broken radius.”

“What started it?”

John chuckled and lifted his left arm, turning it in the air slowly, “Turns out big sisters don’t like it when their little brothers put aversion medicine in their drinks. Lesson learned.”

Sherlock pursed his lips before pressing them to John’s warm skin, “I must admit, Mycroft never tossed me out of a _building_.”

“I suppose he can’t be all _that_ bad, then,” John teased, sighing and nestling his head back into his pillow. “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, pulling up onto his knees and leaning over John to kiss him gently, “I’m not tired. I’ll just be out in the sitting room.” He pressed his lips to the doctor’s for a long moment before pulling back up straight, “Sleep well.”

The doctor smirked and sat up gripping Sherlock’s upper arm and jerking him back to the bed, “No you don’t!”

Dark brows hit his hairline as the detective was thrust back onto the bed and lips warmed by sleep and conversation pressed against his own, stealing away any complaints he would have had. He closed his eyes and let the sensation wash over him as he felt John’s knees straddle his hips and warm palms brush against his chest, “What are you doing, John?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” John said softly as he flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall, pressing their lips together once more before sitting up on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock smiled and cocked a brow, “It is and be that as it may, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I love you,” John blurted out, his hands kneading on Sherlock’s waist from his hips up to his ribs, reveling in the fact that Sherlock was _finally_ getting over his tactile aversion.

Sherlock hummed and rested his arms above his head, allowing John full access to his torso, “I hold the same sentiment towards you.” He then clenched his fists and furrowed his brow, “You know, I’ve always wondered, John.”

“Hmm?” John hummed, delicately brushing his thumbs against the knobs on Sherlock’s chest, causing him to inhale sharply and smile back.

“Why?”

The doctor waited for the rest of the question, but it didn’t seem to want to make itself known, “Why… what?”

Sherlock seemed to squirm uneasily for a moment before he exhaled a full breath and flicked his eyes back up to the dark navy ones, “Why all this? You’ve given me everything I could have asked for, but _why?_ ”

The doctor thinned his lips and flattened his palm against Sherlock’s chest, above his thrumming heart, “Because I love you, Sherlock.”

“But _why_?” The detective groaned impatiently. “It doesn’t make any logical sense. You’ve never been attracted to men, and I’m sure on either field you could have anyone you wanted so why _this_?”

The shorter man sighed and shook his head, “Isn’t it obvious, Sherlock? I’ve never felt like this towards anyone else because none of them were _you_.” He shrugged and lowered his gaze, “I don’t care if you’re a man, a woman, or _what_ have you. I’ve already told you that I didn’t care if you wouldn’t let me touch you-” he flicked his eyes up and held his hand out pleadingly, “Not that I don’t want to! I promise, that’s not what I’m saying I just- Oh Christ, this is brilliant. Look, Sherlock.” He lifted one palm to Sherlock’s cheek and cupped it, forcing him to meet his gaze, “You are the first person who has ever made me feel worth anything. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to lose that and I don’t want to lose _you._ I didn’t think that I would ever find someone who could… I dunno- make my _demons_ disappear? That’s terribly sappy isn’t it? Oh- but you _do_ and I _love_ you for it. Please don’t question it, alright? Love- or whatever this is- isn’t based in logic.” He shrugged and tilted his head, “You can’t honestly tell me there’s a logical reason you’re in love with a broken Army doctor with PTSD, so don’t expect the same from me. I can’t tell you _why_ I do, just _that_ I do, so accept it.” His eyes were large and round as he pleaded with the detective, “ _Please_.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he let all of that sink in. John was wrong. He could write an entire encyclopedia of completely logical reasons he wanted to love his steadfast doctor, but Sherlock wouldn’t bring that up. It might be a _little_ much with everything else John was saying.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John said softly, flicking his eyes down to Sherlock’s bare chest. “I don’t care if you have a bruised body or a broken heart as long as you let me try and mend them.” John’s palm flattened Sherlock’s curls as he ran his hand over them and cupped Sherlock’s neck, “Let me hold you at night and let me kiss away your breath and let me run my hands through your hair while you sleep. That’s all I ask, Sherlock. I just want you to let me love you.”

Sherlock searched for any inkling of falsity, but found none and sighed his surrender. He then flicked his eyes up as John chuckled and rested his other palm on Sherlock’s sternum, “And besides, even though I’m in love with _you_ , and not your body- it is a _brilliant_ fringe benefit.”

Sherlock’s cheeks burned as the doctor smiled and leaned back so that he could press his lips to Sherlock’s pale belly, eliciting a soft giggle before he travelled up his sternum and to his neck, underneath his jaw. He sucked there for a moment causing the detective to groan with pleasure before he sat back on his heels and tugged at Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock beamed and watched curiously as John lifted his large hand and spread out his elegant fingers; looking at them with terrible yearning before pressing his lips to his pinky, “I love you because of the way you feel beneath my fingers when you let me touch your skin.” For every statement, John pressed his lips to the next finger down Sherlock’s hand. “I love you because of the way your voice sounds when you speak and _especially_ when you tell me you love me. I love you because of the way you look at me with those beautiful eyes that see more than I could ever hope to. I love you because of the way you think and how utterly and maddeningly brilliant you are.” He then flicked his eyes up wickedly as he pressed Sherlock’s thumb to his lips and smiled, “And I especially love you because of the way you taste on my tongue.” He then let his tongue lap over Sherlock’s thumb and his warm lips wrapped around the digit as he sucked softly.

The detective’s eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned sinfully and gripped John’s cheek to pull him down for a kiss, tasting the salt of his own skin on his lips. He deepened it until there was hardly a breath between them and Sherlock panted against John’s cheek, “You sentimental idiot.”

John rolled his eyes and pressed his lips back against the detective’s, “Yes, but I’m _your_ sentimental idiot and I’m absolutely thrilled about it.”

The consultant’s chest warmed until he could feel it radiating through his skin. The man in his arms was wonderful; absolutely, unequivocally, and undeniably magnificent. He lifted his large palm and ran it over John’s short hair, watching as the strands popped back into place after they were displaced.

“I want to make love with you, John.”

John sputtered and jerked back on Sherlock’s hips, the friction of which did not do anything to help their predicament. He coughed as he raked a hand through his hair and his navy eyes flickered every in the room besides at the man underneath his hips, “Are you- um- are you _sure_ about that? I mean it’s still really early in this and _I’m_ still healing and so are _you_ and I mean- are you _sure_ you want to take that step so soon?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and frowned, “Do you not?”

“I don’t- wait-what?” John stammered before forcing himself to sigh and meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Look, I don’t want… I just don’t want you leave.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. _Leave? What on Earth would possess John to think I would leave?_

John shook his head and laughed meekly, “I know it’s stupid, I just don’t want- I don’t know what I’m doing yet and I don’t want to risk hurting you and… I don’t know… _scaring_ you.”

Sherlock smiled at John’s consideration and lifted his palm to cup John’s cheek, “I am not afraid. Not anymore.” He pulled John down for a kiss and whispered his own words back to him, “You’re here… and you’re what makes me brave.”

John shook his head in disbelief before crushing Sherlock’s lips against his own until he had the taller man gasping for air and rolling his hips into John’s, the friction of which caused John’s heart to lurch in his chest.

“May I touch you?” John breathed against Sherlock’s ear, reveling in the way his voice made the detective’s hips jolt up. “Perhaps we shouldn’t make love tonight, but… I want to love you in other ways.”

Sherlock fluttered his eyes open and smiled as he nodded, gasping as he felt John’s hands brush over his crotch and cup his hardening flesh. He hummed happily as John’s fingers suddenly left him and began to tug at his sleep trousers; slipping them off easily as Sherlock lifted his hips off of the bed.

“One step at a time, Sherlock,” John hummed against Sherlock’s belly before he kissed the tense muscle of his lower abdomen. “Are you keeping your safe word?”

“John, I hardly-”

“ _Are_ you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped his head back, “Yes, yes, _alright_. _Mirror_ , you insufferable, paranoid-”

His words were cut off as overwhelming warmth descended on his groin, engulfing him in sensations he’d never before experienced. He gasped and hummed as pressure pulled at him and warm hands gripped at his hips.

 _That is a LOVELY sensation,_ his jumbled mind tried to suggest before he felt a warm muscle press flat against his sex and drag up it; a sucking pressure pulling gently at his skin.

“John!”

The doctor smiled back up at him and the sight of red lips mouthing around him sent odd butterfly sensations into his gut, causing him to flop his head back down against the bed and just revel in the contact. What was one to do in this sort of situation? John was too far for him to actually reciprocate the motion and he could barely keep his thoughts together as – _Ah!_

Sherlock groaned and tilted his head back into the pillows as John hummed and the vibrations from his throat travelled up the detective’s spine. Eager and enthused by Sherlock’s reaction, John continued in his ministrations, pulling his lips taut as he reached the tip them dropping back down with a warm ring of flesh tight around his lover’s member.

“J-John!” Sherlock groaned as the barrage of sensations lapped over him like wave upon wave of warmth and comfort.

 _Trust_. _That was what this was all about_. Sherlock flicked his eyes open caught a glimpse of John’s debauched appearance and smiled. This required a _considerable_ amount of trust. To allow someone to put their mouth- filled with teeth and mandibles that can break small bones- around the most sensitive part of one’s body produced a rather heady sensation throughout his entire person. He trusted this man with his entire _life._ He could trust that he would keep him safe in the presence of weapons, in the presence of fear, and most pleasurable- the presence of intimacy.

He gasped as a warm hand cupped his buttocks and pulled his hips closer to the doctor’s range of motion as he hummed and sucked Sherlock’s sex. _No WONDER people kill and die for this. This… this love is wonderful. It feels safe and happy and exciting and lovely and perfect…_

John could taste the salt dripping down his throat and he hummed happily as he watched Sherlock’s expressions of total bliss and contentment. No, he’d never been with a man before, but knowing what he liked made it easier to produce those similar sensations for another. _God, this man was beautiful_. There was a soft squeak as Sherlock tilted his head back and exposed his elegant neck to the world and John drew a long line up his shaft before pulling up and kissing that wonderful expansion of skin.

The detective panted into his hair as he turned to catch John’s eye and smile as John’s hand wrapped around him and tugged gently as he lifted up and kissed him. He could taste himself on John’s lips and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the thought. _Is that supposed to be attractive? I really wish I knew if I was supposed to like that or not. Oh, God!_

“Mirror!” He suddenly hollered, jerking his face away from John’s and into the pillows.

Navy eyes grew wide with shock as he immediately removed himself from any contact with the detective’s body and held out his palms, “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

Sherlock panted and nodded fervently, puffing out his cheeks as he flicked his eyes up to John’s panicked ones, “I’m- I’m fine. It’s just a bit… You’re pulling my brain in ten different directions and I’m struggling to keep up.”

John exhaled his relief that he hadn’t done something _terribly wrong_ and smiled, “That’s understandable.”

Sherlock suddenly dipped his chin and flicked his eyes back up, “May I… May I try it?”

John’s brows hit his hairline as he tilted his head, “On me? Well- erm- sure. Are you _sure_? It’s a little intense.”

Sherlock shrugged and sat up, tugging at John’s elbow, “I won’t know if I never try.”

John smiled and allowed Sherlock to pull him back down against the bed and switch positions with him, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There was a soft chuckle and hands ran through Sherlock’s dark curls as John pulled him down for a kiss. It was soft and languid and sweet and as he pulled Sherlock away he smiled, “We’re learning together. Just… do what you do best- _experiment_.”

Happiness and relief settled in Sherlock’s chest as he pecked John’s nose and slipped down his body.

He could _do_ this. This was John and anything to do with John was something pleasant. He exhaled softly, trying to gain his composure and the doctor gasped with the contact of cool air on his heated skin.

“Sherlock, you wonderful man.”

The praise painted an immediate grin on Sherlock’s face and he decided to finally take the plunge, slowly wrapping his full lips against John’s member as the doctor cursed his satisfaction. Muscles tensed around Sherlock’s face as John attempted to rein in any sudden bucking and Sherlock decided to take matters into his own hands; gripping John’s hips tightly and eliciting a groan from the man who proceeded to rest a hand gently in Sherlock’s curls. No pulling, no twisting, no pushing; just resting his hand there as if to bring comfort to him with a mere touch.

“You are lovely, Sherlock.”

He swallowed down and was surprised with how much his mouth was _filled_ with such an object. He was a rather tall man and his long jaw exhibited that fact, but his mouth was suddenly so full, he was afraid he’d choke if his didn’t pay attention. _Christ, this was all so difficult._

He meant to ask a question, but didn’t retract his mouth in time to do so, and his eyes jerked up as John cried out; the vibrations of his deep voice reverberating throughout John’s entire frame.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” His mouth was red and bruised as he dropped his jaw and his voice cracked with pleasure, “Your- Christ! Is there anything you can’t use to make- ah!”

Sherlock smiled as he tasted salt on his tongue and he dipped his mouth lower on John’s extremities. At first, he’d been concerned that this was a more submissive and demeaning role, but he was pleased to find that he was very _much_ in control of the situation. He could make John squirm with the slightest tug of his lips and without much effort at all, he could make the good doctor cry out in pleasure. _How… gratifying._

What was more was the fact that the trust Sherlock had placed in his companion was now being bestowed upon _him_. John trusted _him_ and that in itself was a glorifying sensation.

“Sherlock, I’m…” John seemed to lose his train of thought as Sherlock sucked him down to the hilt again and his cheeks flushed with pleasure and endorphins. “Sh’lock, you should- Christ! I’m about to- ah! Just like that!”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up as his tongue raked against John’s slit and he watched as a steady hand gripped into the mattress with a force that settled deep in Sherlock’s belly. His doctor was _strong_ , and he loved the idea of him using that strength for his protection. He continued the motion John had requested and watched as John’s head tilted back and his eyes closed, his jaw dropping and his entire frame tensing with his imminent release.

Cat eyes widened as the thought finally hit his mind, _Oh wait! Christ, what am I supposed to do? Do I stay down here? Do I let go? Oh, bugger._

His choice was suddenly made for him as the hand that had been in Sherlock’s hair suddenly dipped to his shoulder and gripped like a vice as the doctor cried out, jerking his hips up into Sherlock’s mouth. The detective initially gagged at the sudden pulse of hot bodily fluids in his throat but tried to swallow what he could of it, if only to keep the mess at a minimum. _Is that what I’m supposed to do? Christ, don’t they have manuals for these sorts of things?_ He pinched one eye closed as he tasted John’s release and contemplated it. _Well, that’s a rather… odd flavour. Not terribly unpleasant, just… peculiar. Is this what I taste like or does everyone have their own signature flavour? Is there a way to test that without it being terribly strange? Maybe John knows- he’s a doctor anyways. Ugh, I really should have eaten something today- this… stuff… feels weird against the lining of my stomach._

“Sher- Sher- Oh my God!” John panted as Sherlock swallowed the last bit he could muster and pulled his lips off of his lover, lifting his body with shaking arms until John pulled him tight over his chest and locked their lips until he couldn’t breathe.

“I love you,” John panted, tasting himself of Sherlock’s lips and feeling the detective’s pattering heartbeat throughout his entire body as his weight settled upon him. “So much.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock smiled, resting his forehead against John’s chin until the doctor nudged him up and rested a hand on his hip.

“Can I finish touching you?” He questioned softly, massaging at the narrow pelvic bone that reminded him that he should _really_ make sure the detective ate more regularly.

To his surprise, the detective lifted his hand off of the mattress and settled it on his other hip as he rocked against John’s waist.

“I love your body, Sherlock,” John hummed, running one hand over Sherlock’s waist and pulling the small of his back down until their hips met in the middle. His fingertips pressed into the lithe frame up to the shoulder then back down as he bent his head to kiss his lover’s cheek. “Everything about you is wonderful.”

The detective gasped as a warm hand cupped him and tugged gently at his softened member until he was thrusting into John’s hand as he’d done before.

“You’re beautiful,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s cheek, watching the pale skin flush and his pulse thrum at his neck. “You are lovely and handsome and warm and brilliant.”

Sherlock groaned and pressed his lips to John’s throat. John’s voice had always mollified his concerns. The doctor didn’t necessarily speak much, but when he did, he always had the power for comfort on his side. Even that night when Sherlock had come home bloody and broken, John’s voice had soothed his concerns.

“Ah!” Sherlock gasped as that thought struck him. _Bloody and broken. Who would want you now?_

 _Enough,_ his mind argued as he sucked gently at John’s neck, forcing his mind onto one track as his body pulled at another, pooling at the base of his spine. _You don’t need to worry. He wants you. Obviously. He LOVES you, now STOP it. John doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want and that includes YOU._

“I love you,” John whispered at the perfect moment to throw him past his concerns and spilling into John’s hand with a rather adolescent squeak that he was _not_ going to claim as his own. His chest heaved as he rode out the waves of his release against John’s fist and John chuckled as he pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s drenched brow.

“Are you all right?” He asked softly as the consultant’s arms trembled with pleasure and the effort of holding himself above his companion for so long.

Sherlock furrowed his brow because for some reason… he actually _didn’t_ feel all right. Endorphins swam through his vessels and into his extremities, sending dopamine and serotonin into his flesh, but something in his chest wasn’t settling. “Y-yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” John pressed, using his chin to force Sherlock’s head up and meet his gaze. Navy eyes were soft and open, pupils still dilated with lust as he creased them in concern. “You don’t look it.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock huffed, pressing his lips against John’s neck again until John pressed against his chest and held him up.

“Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong,” He thinned his lips and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s okay.”

“You needn’t worry,” Sherlock shook his head, smiling and forcing it to meet his eyes. He sat back on his heels and John followed, sitting up straight and placing his hand at Sherlock’s waist. “Really, John; I’m fine.”

John sighed as he searched his lover’s face for signs of lying, but was unable to find any real proof of his suspicions, “Okay then. I’m- I’ll just…” He gestured to the bathroom and slipped from the bed with a soft smile and Sherlock sighed as the door shut.

 _Something_ didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t figure out exactly _what._ Either way he needed to get over it. If this was how he was going to feel after every time he was intimate with the good doctor, well so be it. He slumped onto the mattress and pressed his face into the pillow, his body slipping underneath the duvet as it suddenly felt very exposed and vulnerable.

“Sherlock, love,” John’s voice suddenly appeared at his side and a damp hand ran through his curls as he sat on the side of the bed. “What’s the matter?”

The detective jerked his head to the side and smiled, “Stop being so ornery, John. I’m just tired.”

“ _You_? _Tired_?” John teased, leaning forward to press a kiss to his brow. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“You’re creating an issue where there _isn’t_ one,” he hummed in a sing-song voice as John’s hand ran through his curls and settled the overwhelming sensation of doom in his gut.

“Alright, _alright,_ ” John smiled, as he ruffled the dark curls and slipped beneath the covers himself, grinning as he curled on his side facing the detective. He brushed the fringe from his lover’s face and his eyes glistened as Sherlock flicked his up and met them. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am with you.”

“I believe that’s the hormones talking,” Sherlock teased with a crinkled nose that earned him rolling eyes.

Flushed cheeks nestled into the pillow as Sherlock brought his arms underneath it and sighed into the fabric. A warm palm kneaded against his shoulder blade and he looked up to find navy darkened with desire staring back at him.

“It’s still true.”

The smaller man’s body curled up next to his own and before long his eyes fluttered shut and thin lips pursed in slumber, leaving Sherlock to his own thoughts in the darkness of the early morning.

 _There is NOTHING wrong with you_ , he forced his mind to reason as he closed his eyes and focused on the sensations of John’s lax palm against his skin.

_You’re all right. You’re all right._

_Just breathe._

 

***

 

A soft buzz pulled John from his slumber and he blearily opened one eye as he searched for the cause of his consciousness.

He slowly pulled himself up to find that there was no burning detective to his side and that his side of the bed was ice cold as if he had vacated it a long while ago. He stretched and yawned as he slipped from the bed and tugged his sleep trousers back onto his hips.

“Sherlock?” He yawned again as he padded out into the sitting area and flicked on the light, noticing the sun just about to start rising through the windows. He flinched at the brightness but was soon unsettled by the lack of life that greeted him. He turned about and listened for the slightest movement before calling out again, “Sherlock?”

_That’s… odd._

He pursed his lips as he heard no whisper of feet from upstairs and no breath being taken in the downstairs and resolved to determine why after he went to the loo and brushed his teeth. Cool air breathed down his spine and caused him to shiver so he set about stoking a fire first, waiting till healthy warmth billowed out from it before padding back through Sherlock’s room into the bathroom. As soon as he did, though, his stomach dropped at the terribly familiar sight.

“Sherlock!” He called as he knelt down in front of the toilet where the detective sat curled up in a ball and shivering. He smelled of a fresh shower and was covered from head to toe in clothes: a sight John had not seen since the truth about Sherlock’s rape had come to light and John’s heart sunk. _Oh God, what have I done?_ Sherlock’s shaking hands were clasped in front of his face and his eyes were boring holes into the tile floor as John reached out for him.

“Mirror!” He snapped, jerking his eyes up to John and recoiling away farther into the wall and away from John’s half-naked body.

The doctor immediately retracted his hand held out his palms in a placating manner, his eyes wide with concern, “Okay, I’m not touching you, Sherlock. What’s happened? What’s going on?”

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his gaze, fervently exhibiting his predicament, “I- I don’t- I don’t know. There’s something wrong- I don’t- this doesn’t feel right.”

John pursed his lips and extended his hand gently, “Can I make sure you’re not about to stroke out on me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but thought better than to argue. He carefully lifted his hoodie sleeve to expose his pale wrist for John’s experimentation, watching with a wary eye as John touched two fingers to the pulse before retracting. Navy eyes were soft and open as he questioned him again, “Smile.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose indignantly at the thought and John shook his head, “I suppose that’ll do. Repeat after me: ‘The sky is blue’.”

“This is ridiculous, John,” Sherlock snapped irately. “I’m not having a stroke.”

John huffed his indignation and crossed his arms over his chest with the chill of winter, “I’m just making sure, you stubborn arse.” He stood to his feet and held out a finger, “Just a moment.”

He shuffled out of the loo before returning shortly after carrying a soft throw blanket while pulling on an unassuming oatmeal jumper. He knelt down in front of Sherlock and held out the fabric to him, “It’s cold in here. Take it.”

Sherlock’s mouth pinched tight before long fingers finally pried the material from John’s hand and pulled it around his shivering body. The doctor crossed his legs beneath him, giving Sherlock ample room to breathe and get away if need be, and pursed his brow in concern, “Sherlock what’s going on?”

Sherlock shook his head again and nuzzled his nose into the blanket until only his eyes were exposed between it and the top of his hood, “I don’t know. I’ve felt like I was going to be sick for the last two hours and I can’t stop shaking and I feel _awful_.”

“Like _Flu_ -awful or like _naked_ -awful?” John pried, tilting his head slightly as he searched Sherlock’s trembling body for answers.

Sherlock hadn’t considered that John would understand the concept of feeling naked while completely clothed and his eyes jerked up at the accurate suggestion. John was wonderfully bright when he wanted to be. “The l-latter.”

“Did you have a flashback?” John questioned to which Sherlock flinched and gripped his knees tighter to his chest.

“No, that’s why I don’t _understand_ ,” he whispered, his eyes shifting down to the tile again. “I would understand feeling like this if I had a _reason_ , but I _don’t_. There’s just something not _right_ in me.”

“There is nothing _wrong_ with you,” John assured him, shifting a bit on the tile to scoot closer. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever’s going on, we can work through it. When did you start feeling like this?”

An escapee curl bounced on Sherlock’s forehead as he trembled and shook his head, “After you fell asleep. I don’t know why- it just felt like the ceiling caved in and I couldn’t stand the feeling of my own skin.”

“It’s all right,” John soothed, extending a hand for a while before finally placing it on Sherlock’s knee. “What we did- was it too much for you?”

Sherlock pinched his lips tight with ire and shook his head, dipping his face into his arms, “It _shouldn’t_ be! I’m _over_ it; this shouldn’t keep _happening_! I’m _sick_ of it!”

“Shhh,” John pacified, rubbing his thumb on Sherlock’s extended tendon. “Shhh, Sherlock, getting upset is not going to help. Tell me step by step what happened.”

Sherlock sighed and kept his face hidden beneath hoodie and blanket, “You fell asleep and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Everything felt _wrong_ and I couldn’t stand the way my skin sat on my bones and I felt …” He seemed to cringe at the thought and shook his head, “I felt _dirty._ I just felt entirely like I did that night and I don’t know _why._ ”

John’s palm was warm on his covered knee and his voice was gentle and comforting, “Sherlock, it’s not uncommon for rape victims-”

“I don’t _want_ to be a _victim_ anymore!” Sherlock yelled, jerking his head up at John who jolted back at the outburst. “I’m _done_ being a casualty of someone else’s pleasure! I. Am. _Fine_!”

“I’m sorry,” John said delicately, lifting his eyes and raising up his palms again, “I didn’t mean it like that. All I meant is that people who are raped often have difficulties with stuff like this even months and years after-”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Sherlock breathed in disbelief before he gagged and cupped his hand over his mouth. He swallowed thickly and shook his head, “This is going to _keep_ happening? I thought I was _done_! You said this was _over_!”

John sighed and shook his head, “Sherlock, it’s not as if there is a set of procedures that one follows and they just magically get better. It takes _time_.”

“How _much?”_ Sherlock snapped, dropping his hand. “I’ve given it _time_ , John! What else am I supposed to _do_? I want to be able to touch you and have you touch me without having an anxiety attack! This is _ridiculous_!”

“Sherlock, we _have_ done that,” John pressed, pursing his lips. “ _Several_ times, in fact, but what we did last night was something _different_. It takes getting _used_ to. There is a considerable amount of difference in the level of trust and vulnerability between the two and it’s intimidating even for- um…”

“Go ahead and _say_ it, John,” Sherlock bit, narrowing his eyes. “ _Say it_. _Uncontaminated_ people. _Unblemished_ humans. We both know that’s what you _mean_.”

“Sherlock, _stop it_ ,” John barked back, earning him a silent glare from the detective. He gripped his friend’s knee tight and exhaled hot air as he regained his composure. “You are not _damaged_ , Sherlock, but you might be soon, because I have half a mind of breaking that bloody nose of yours if you keep trying to put words in my mouth.” He cocked his brow with severity, “This only works if you work _with_ me; not _against_ me.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared with the challenge, but at John’s raised eyebrows, he decided he’d lost the fight and dipped his face back into his arms, “This is _stupid_. I don’t even _think_ about him anymore, John. I don’t think about what he did or how it felt, I’m _over_ it. So why do I keep feeling like this?”

John shrugged and shook his head sadly, “I don’t have all the answers, love. I don’t _know_ why it keeps happening; I just know that I’ll be here to help you get through it until it stops.”

There was a long pause of silence until Sherlock’s voice, meek and barely audible, whispered against his sleeve.

“What if it _never_ stops?”

John shifted up on his knees and slowly brushed a hand against Sherlock’s cheek, causing bloodshot emerald orbs to jerk up at his open expression. He leaned forward and pressed warm lips to Sherlock’s clammy forehead, “Then I will be here to help you for the rest of your life. We can research it. Figure out what works and what doesn’t work and we can slowly bring you back to normality. You’ll be all right, Sherlock. We _both_ just need to learn how to be patient.”

He was suddenly toppled over and hot lips pressed against his own, stealing his very breath away. A hand cupped the back of his head as Sherlock’s entire weight pressed him into the cold tile and a trembling hand gripped tightly at his waist. Unrelenting lips continued to press against him and John had to turn his head to the side to escape them, “Sherlock, what are you _doing_?”

“Have you ever known me to be _patient_ , John?” Sherlock purred against John’s ear before nipping tenderly at the skin and John shook his head, before meeting Sherlock’s gaze head on.

“Sherlock- stop; you don’t want this,” he urged trying to release his arms from Sherlock’s blanket that somehow managed to pin his entire body beneath his weight; his heels scuffing slightly against the tile floor.

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want,” Sherlock argued, letting his kisses travel down John’s neck and suck harshly at his neck until John could _feel_ the bruise forming.

“Sherlock, shove _off!_ ” He hollered, finally pulling his arms from beneath the soft fabric and gripping Sherlock’s shoulders. “Don’t _make_ me hurt you, because I _will_.”

“No you won’t,” Sherlock countered, unhinging John’s grip with an easy maneuver of his wrist against John’s. He grabbed John’s wrists and held them above his head against the tile with one elegant hand, pressing his lips back to the bruise forming on John’s neck.

John tugged at his arms, but doing so wrenched at his side wound and he hissed with discomfort, resorting to having to use his voice, “Sherlock, stop it- let- _MIRROR! Mirror_ , Sherlock! _”_

That word caught Sherlock’s attention and he lifted his eyes to see John’s pupils dilated and his nostrils flaring.

“Is this what you _want_?” John snapped, his nose crinkling with ire. “You want control but at what _cost,_ Sherlock? What lengths are you going to go to prove something to yourself this _stupid_? Does _this_ look like ‘love’ to _you_?” He jerked at his wrists and narrowed his eyes, “Does this look like _trust_ or _friendship_ or anything benevolent to _you?_ ”

“You’re being dramatic,” Sherlock pouted before John jerked at his wrists again, meeting the detective’s eyes with harsh animosity.

“No I’m not!” John said snapped, his eyes widening to exhibit his concern. “You’re being an _idiot_! Can’t you see you’re hurting-?”

“Stop being dull, John,” Sherlock bit, shaking his head and pinching his eyes tight. He could _do_ this. John wanted Sherlock to be able to get over this and Sherlock just longed to make him happy; he _needed_ to show John that he could handle touching and being touched. _I can do this._

Navy eyes widened and the only thought running through the doctor’s mind was _Letmegoletmegoletmegoletmego_ as he jerked weakly at his arms, pulling at his wound painfully. Confinement was most _certainly_ not something he enjoyed and the inability to protect himself sent panic flooding into his system.He suddenly cried out as Sherlock’s hand gripped tighter on his wrist and his voice cracked as he felt his pulse skyrocket in his ears, “Sherlock, you’re _scaring_ me! Let me _go!_ ”

Sherlock jerked his eyes up to find John’s shimmering and his cheeks flushed. Navy rings were set about large pupils that flicked everywhere on his face and John’s chest heaved beneath him as if he’d run a mile. Sherlock then furrowed his brow at the fact that John actually _looked_ _frightened_. That was… unexpected. Had he ever actually heard those words come out of John’s mouth?

“Sherlock, I can’t _fight_ back! _Look!_ ” John hollered, shaking his head and squirming beneath Sherlock’s legs as he pulled feebly at his wrists. His chest heaved as his eyes flicked between Sherlock’s. “You haven’t let go even though I’ve _told_ you to- _what_ does that _sound_ like to _you_? Sounds oddly _familiar_ , doesn’t it?”

“ _What?”_ Sherlock breathed with disbelief. “This isn’t anything-”

“Why?” John snapped with a grimace, “Because I _know_ you? Because we’ve been intimate before? There’s _no fucking difference_ ; now let me _go, dammit_!”

Sherlock did so immediately and John slid himself away, pressing against his side as he grit his teeth and hummed with discomfort, leaning against the tub. Suddenly navy eyes, dark with animosity, flicked at him and John’s voice boomed in the small room, “I’m supposed to _trust_ you, Sherlock! How can I do that if you don’t _listen_ to me?”

Sherlock shook his head and ran a hand through his messy curls as he sat back on his heels, “I- I don’t understand. That’s what you wanted...”

“Yes _last night_ , but not _now_! I wanted it when we _both_ did; that’s the _point_!” John corrected, wrapping his arms around himself and scowling. “I don’t know what you _think_ intimacy is, but it’s not just touching one another. It’s _trusting_ someone not to hurt you. Whatever _that_ was,” he pointed to where Sherlock’s knees still rested on the blanket, “ _that_ wasn’t it.”

Sherlock stammered as he sat back on his heels and tried to reevaluate the situation, “John, I- I don’t-”

“What the hell _was_ that?” John snapped, his cheeks pinching tight and flushing red hot. “You’ve never ignored me before, is that something you’re going to start doing? Because I am _not_ about to allow you to do that to me.”

Sherlock shook his head fervently and raised his palms, “No, John, I- please- _wait_!”

“I thought you _learned_ something that night,” John bit, eying Sherlock up and down with disdain as he hugged himself tighter and brought his knees to his chest. “How _dare_ you treat someone, especially someone you are supposed to bloody _care_ about, so shamefully?”

The detective narrowed his eyes before he lowered his head and shrugged, not knowing what to say. He had no answer; no _real one_ anyways. What point had he been trying to make? What had he been trying to prove by hurting the only person who seemed to put any effort into helping him heal? What an _idiot_!

“Fine. I’m going out,” John suddenly stated, jerking to his feet and slamming the bathroom door behind him as he pounded up the stairs to his mostly-abandoned room.

“John, _wait_!” Sherlock hollered as he scrambled to his feet and swung the door open, waiting for his companion at the stairwell where he gripped the doctor’s jacket in his hands.

John padded back down the stairs in a complete outfit and rolled his eyes when he caught the detective’s eye, “Give me my jacket.”

Sherlock shook his head and clutched the comforting fabric to his chest, “Please don’t go. I’m- I don’t-”

“Sherlock, give me. My. Bloody. Jacket.” John bit sternly, jerking his extended hand and looking up through his brow at the detective with a harsh glare that Sherlock couldn’t remember ever being directed at _him_ before.

“John, please. I’m-”

“Fine!” John hollered, waving his hand exasperatedly and padding down the next few steps. “I don’t need one. I’ll see you later.”

A curt slam left the detective alone, clutching his companion’s coat to his chest as he leaned against the doorframe and sighed, softly knocking his head against wooden beams with self-vexation.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

 

***

 

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!”

John growled as he jerked his fists into his jean pockets and puffed hot air into the morning chill. The tip of his nose burned with the winter chill and he could feel his cheeks flushing as he tucked his chin into his pale oatmeal jumper. What the _hell_ had that been? Sherlock had _never_ been that aggressive towards him in the entirety of the time they’d known one another and John was _not_ a fan of that side of his detective.

_Relax; I’m sure there was a reason._

He puffed out another hot breath into the air and shook his head.

_Nothing excuses that. I don’t care, I am NOT about to let that start happening._

A particularly cold gust of wind blew right threw his jumper and chilled him to the bone, causing his teeth to chatter about in his skull as he ducked into a small coffee shop that had just opened. He rubbed tenderly at his arms, dispelling the chill from his skin as he absorbed the sweet scent of coffee beans and sweetened milk into his very pores.

_Sherlock is SUCH an idiot._

He shook his head and ordered a cup before settling in at a table next to the window, watching as a light dusting of ice began to form on the street. Suddenly he remembered the buzz that had awakened him and slipped his mobile out of his pocket.

 

From: Greg Lestrade

_Happy New Year’s John! I expect you to share a pint with me before the year’s out. –GL_

_06:02_

 

John dragged a hand down his face and groaned.

_New Year’s; that’s right. Christ, what horrid timing._

“Morning!”

John jerked his head up to see a rather pretty red-head barista smiling at him so he returned the gesture, “Good morning. How are you, Ms.…?”

“Melody,” The woman grinned, extending her dainty hand that John accepted. “And you are?”

“John. John Watson,” he replied with a soft smile. At least _someone_ was going to be decent with him today.

“Lovely name,” she hummed, lifting the container in her right hand. “You look chilled to the bone. Can I get you any more?”

John looked into his cup and agreed watching as she filled it and proceeded to sit down opposite him at the table.

“It’s always dead on New Year’s Eve,” she complained, looking about the practically empty shop then back to the doctor. She had lovely green eyes that creased as she smiled and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“It could also have something to do with the fact the sun’s hardly come up yet.”

“Perhaps,” she chuckled, flicking her eyes down then back up. “What are your plans then?”

John furrowed his brow and smiled with a shrug, “Don’t suppose I’ve actually made any yet. And you?”

“You’re looking at them,” she sighed, flicking the lid on the coffee container with a manicured finger. “Shame, but it’s good pay on holidays.”

“I’d assume so,” John smiled. He gestured to the window and grinned, “You’re young! You should go enjoy your time. Surely you’ve got friends to spend it with?”

“No, but I have a feeling I might be making one,” she purred immediately springing red flags in John’s head.

“Oh! Um, no, no, I’m sorry, love; I don’t believe you are,” he instantly retorted, holding up his palms. “Not that I’m not sure you are a _lovely_ woman, but I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

The news didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest and she tilted her head, “Oh! Well at least I still get to chat with you, yeah?”

Taken aback slight, John furrowed his brow, but shrugged, “Well- erm- sure. Why not?”

Suddenly she tucked his leg beneath her in the seat and perched over the table like a school girl about to dish in some gossip, “Well let me see her! Certainly you’ve a photo of her.”

John’s cheeks flushed and he looked down into his cup before sliding his mobile back out of his pocket, “Well, erm- I’m sure I have a photo of _him_.”

Her cheeks blushed and her emerald eyes creased as she began to giggle, “Wow! I was _way_ off! How funny! Well, go on! Let me see!”

Was it odd that he loved to brag about his detective to total strangers? Perhaps, but he delighted in doing so anyways; even if said man was being a right wanker at the moment. He tapped along the touchscreen until an image he’d snapped of Sherlock at a crime scene filled the screen. A full body shot, the detective seemed oblivious to John’s photography and was picking at something interesting he had found within a crevice of a wooden wall- a bullet, John remember as he showed the girl the screen of the bright cat eyes narrowing at the hidden evidence and his lips pursed with irritation.

“My, my,” she grinned as she plucked the mobile from John’s hands. “Isn’t _he_ handsome? Not a very happy photo, though.”

John shook his head and laughed, “He doesn’t do those, I’m afraid.”

“And exactly _why_ aren’t you still in bed with this wonderful specimen?” She questioned cheekily. “ _I_ would be if I were you.”

His cheeks flushed and he couldn’t contain his nervous laughter, “Well I certainly wish I was.” He chewed his cheek before he finally decided to let the frustration out, grateful to have a captive audience, “I’m afraid we had a bit of a row.”

“Oh no,” she said softly, pursing her lips. “Certainly nothing major?”

John’s brow twitched. _What do you consider ‘major’?_ “I don’t- I don’t think so- or at least I _hope_ not, but- oh, I don’t know. He was just being an _idiot_ and it escalated.”

“Surely you didn’t…” She trailed off, her eyes widening and suddenly glancing at John’s muscular hands.

John furrowed his brow as he tried to follow her train of thought before finally jumping aboard, “You mean _hit_ him? No! Absolutely- no, absolutely not!” He fervently shook his head and looked at his palms, “No, we’ve never- I couldn’t hurt him even if I wanted to. He’s been through so much already; I couldn’t bear to add to it. No- absolutely not.”

“Good to hear,” Melody added softly, clasping her hands in front of her. “You stormed out?” John jerked his head up and Melody answered his cocked brow, “Only an idiot runs out without a jacket in the middle of winter.”

“Ah, well, yes. I was livid and he tried to apologize- I think, but I wasn’t…” He sighed and shook his head, “I wasn’t having it.”

“Well, there’s no better time for a row than now, I suppose.” She shrugged at John’s confused expression, “It’s New Year’s. New beginnings, right? Forgive and forget?”

“Forgive and forget,” John repeated softly chewing on his lip. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right.”

Suddenly the woman stood to her feet and pressed warm lips to John’s cheek, “I think you’ve made some progress, Mr. John Watson, but I’m afraid I have to get back to work.” She picked up her coffee container and smiled at John’s bewildered expression, “I also think you have somewhere else to be.”

She granted him another small smile before flitting off to the back of the store, wiping red lipstick from his cheek with the heel of his palm.

Why hadn’t women hit on him like this before he and Sherlock had become an item? Sometimes the way the world worked was rather humorous.

He plucked his mobile from the table and tapped open a new text.

 

To: Sherlock

_We need to talk. –JW_

_07:29_

He left a tip on the table and jerked back out into the cold air of the morning, off to repair what he could salvage from this wretched holiday.

 

***

 

The detective wrapped his hands around his legs as he peered into the Thames and sighed into his knees. The sun had come and gone and now the sky was dark with night and devoid of stars due to the massive light pollution from the celebrating city.

As soon as the doctor had left that morning, Sherlock had compelled himself to leave, too. There was only one inevitable outcome for their predicament and he didn’t fancy being blatantly rejected, so he forced himself out instead.

“You _idiot_ ,” he chided himself quietly as a gust of wind off the water bit through his coat and caused his cheeks to flush. He’d caused _genuine_ _fear_ to cloud the heart of the man he was supposed to love and that was a feeling he really could do without.

_I’m supposed to be able to TRUST you!_

John’s voice rang in his mind and he groaned, dipping his head behind his knees. What. An. Idiot. Sherlock had _finally_ been able to conquer his tactile aversion, and then he went in bollixed it all up by trying to prove something he had no business proving.

Wandering the familiar streets of London had settled his nerves for the most part, but the constant reminder of guilt permeated throughout his body; sticking to his skin like pitch.

“ _Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God- I am going to KILL you when I- ah! Get my bloody hands on you!”_

The detective jerked up his head at the familiar hollering and spun around on his knees to see John sliding down the dirt and rock incline to the bank. He stood to his feet and prepared himself for the worst with a ramrod straight spine and a lifted chin, when all of a sudden, overwhelming warmth surrounded his chest and sandy hair brushed against his jaw.

He glanced down as John hugged him tightly and pursed his lips, “John?”

“You great _idiot_!” John hollered before pulling away and clouting Sherlock behind his ear like one would admonish a child. The detective yelped and covered his head as John continued to scold him, “Where the _hell_ have you been? I’ve been looking all _over_ for you!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and shook his head, “What? Why?”

John gripped Sherlock’s shirt in his fist and shook him slightly before letting go, “Because I’ve been worried _sick_ , you utter wanker! Why the _hell_ haven’t you been answering my calls? Give me your bloody mobile!”

The flabbergasted man’s eyes were wide and frantic as he lifted his shoulders, “I- I don’t have it. Are you all right?”

“Do I _look_ all right to you?” John snapped, his small stature taking absolutely nothing away from his demanding presence. “You can’t just _disappear_ and not give me any warning! Awful shite happens to you all the time! You have to let me know you’re safe and not in the hands of God- _knows-_ who!”

Sherlock shook his head slightly and backed away from the fuming doctor, “I don’t understand. You were going-”

“Going to what?” John interrupted, cocking a brow and shifting on his hips. “I’m about to go and _strangle_ you for nearly giving me a heart attack! We’ve _talked_ about this!”

“What does it _matter_ , John?” Sherlock moaned turning away and wrapping his arms around himself. “Just go away. Leave me be.”

John laughed mirthlessly and jerked the detective back around by his arm, “I search for you all day long, call your brother who had _no_ idea where you were and practically have Lestrade put out an APB for you and you have the _nerve_ to tell me to sod off? Are you _demented?_ ”

“You’re going to _anyways_!” Sherlock suddenly snapped, his eyes glistening and his arms wrapping tighter around his frame.

“Going to _what_?” John prodded, watching as the detective’s face became haggard and sallow in the meager moonlight.

“Leave!” A cracked voice hollered, startling both parties into silence; the rippling of the Thames becoming the soundtrack to their silent debate.

“I’m not- w-why would you think that?” John quietly stammered, ice settling in his gut at Sherlock’s outburst.

“Because I _hurt_ you,” Sherlock reasoned, waving a hand at John’s body. He shook his head and ripped a hand through his curls as he pointed back to where John had just slid down, “John, just leave. Don’t draw this out and inject dramatics for the sake of doing so; that’s so dull. I just want you to go silently.”

“Sherlock, I-”

“I don’t need your _pity,_ John!” He bit, pinching his cheeks tight and scrubbing at his face. “I’ve made my mistake and I’m paying for it- _again_. Just _go_ before I hurt you-!”

“Enough!” John cut him off, nearly toppling over himself in his effort to grab Sherlock’s arm and jerk him forward again. “Sherlock look at me.” He held Sherlock still with one hand and gently grabbed his chin with the other, forcing the taller man to lower his face and meet his gaze. John pursed his lips, “I’m not going anywhere. You should know that by now. I’ve _died_ to keep you safe; you honestly think a single argument is going to send me away?”

“I _hurt_ you!” Sherlock argued, his brows parenthesizing his eyes. “You were _afraid_ of me and I didn’t let you go-”

“I’m not afraid of you,” John countered, shaking his head softly without breaking eye contact. “Look, Sherlock, you can’t- you can’t do what you did. That’s far more than ‘not good’. But, I want to know: what exactly was that? You know exactly how it feels to be powerless, so why did you do that to me?”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling his chin from John’s hand. “I hadn’t meant- I just wanted- ugh!” He puffed out his cheeks and lolled his head back in frustration, “I wanted to show you I could stand to do that with you.”

“I know you can, Sherlock,” John reassured him, stepping to the side to force himself back into Sherlock’s line of sight. “I’m not worried about our love life; I never _have_ been. But I _am_ worried about _you_.”

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath and jerked a hand through his messy curls, “I just want to be _normal_ again!” He shook his head and yanked his arm away from John’s grip. “I want you to be able to hold me at night without this awful-” he gestured to his gut and grimaced before turning away, “I don’t- this awful _illness_ settling inside me! I’ve _paid_ my dues! I’ve done _everything_ I was supposed to, so why can’t my life just get back on track? Why do I keep _hurting_?”

John’s heart broke on the last word and he rested a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder and slowly stepped in front of him, “Sherlock, love, look at me. Please.”

A single drop of saline slipped down a cheek flushed with emotion and cold and John thinned his lips, “Sherlock, life will _never_ be the same for you. You won’t ever wake up and become someone who wasn’t attacked- it doesn’t work that way. I wish to _God_ it did or that I could trade for your pain if only to give you some relief, but I _can’t_.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled as John’s warm palm cupped his cheek, “I just want it to _stop_ , John.”

“I know,” John soothed, lifting up on his toes and pressing a soft kiss to his lover’s cheek. “I know how hard you’re trying and I can see you getting better _every_ day. Don’t give up because of a little bump in the road. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

Sherlock sighed and rested his head on John’s, shaking his head slight as he felt warm arms wrap around him.

“I’m not still cross, in case you were wondering,” John said softly into Sherlock’s chest. “I forgive you. Just promise me you won’t ever ignore me like that again. Can you do that?”

Nodding softly against the silky, straight hair, Sherlock sighed and mumbled back, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” John whispered against his scarf, hugging him tightly before pulling away and patting his cheek. “I have something for you.”

Cat eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as John pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and deposited it on Sherlock’s palm. John flattened his hand over the small cloth and smiled, “It’s not an actual gift. More of a token, really, but I hope it might help somehow.”

He released Sherlock’s hand and the detective looked at the white fabric and its contents and pursed his lips without revealing the item, “It’s a stone. I don’t understand.”

“Would you just _look_ at it?” John moaned exasperatedly, his hand covering his face.

Sherlock blinked before delicately pulling the white fabric away to reveal a small oval shaped pebble. Perhaps “pebble” wasn’t the correct term- it was just a bit bigger. He narrowed his eyes as he ran a finger over the friction-smoothed surface. In the little light that there available to them, Sherlock could just barely make out the splashes of gold and blue swirls that he was confident would be absolutely stunning in the daylight. “Pietersite? John, what is this?”

John gently lifted the stone that was about the size of a two pound coin and a half and rested his thumb in the hollowed out groove, “It’s a worry stone.” He rubbed his thumb in the groove as Sherlock watched curiously, “Mum gave it to me when I was a little boy to use when I had nightmares. You just-” he gently tugged at Sherlock’s wrist until he exposed his hand and John slipped the leather glove off of him, placing the stone between his forefinger and thumb, “-yeah, you just rub it like that, exactly!”

Sherlock allowed himself to experiment with the smooth gem and found the motion oddly soothing; much like an Autistic child would find stimming comforting. “John, I don’t understand.”

John puffed out his cheeks and gestured to the little rock, “It’s called a ‘worry stone’ because you use it when you’re worried. So when something upsets you, you can grip on it and calm yourself down.” He suddenly plucked the stone from Sherlock’s grip and slipped it into his right coat pocket. “There. You just slip your hand into your pocket and remind yourself that you’re going to be okay.” He suddenly flushed and rubbed at the back of his neck, “Like I said, I’ve had it since I was small. It was- it’s one of the only things that stayed with me when I went to Afghanistan and it’s one of the few things I have left of my mother. Look, I-I know you don’t believe in sentimental bollocks about items having meaning or things that were owned by someone having anything worth possessing, but I- oh Christ.” He puffed out his cheeks and sighed, “ _It_ means something to me and _you_ mean something to me. I just hope that one can help the other.”

Oddly touched, the detective slipped his hand into his pocket and began to caress the little stone as instructed; knowing that the strength he could feel it imparting to him from his doctor was entirely psychosomatic, but relishing it nonetheless.

“Do you know anything about this stone?” He asked quietly as he noticed John’s resolve slipping from his silence.

John looked up to him and shrugged, “You mean about the actual kind of stone it is? Not- erm, not really.”

Sherlock produced it in his palm again and pointed at the flecks of gold and swirls of colors, “As I said, it’s called Pietersite. It’s terribly ironic you should give this to me today, though.”

John chewed his cheek and quirked his head, “How so?”

Sherlock smiled and turned the stone over in his hand, “It’s silly. Pietersite can come from one of two places and if I’m not mistaken, this particular stone is from China. It’s also surprising your mother was able to find such a large specimen of it- it’s rather rare.” He shrugged, pulling himself back on topic, “Anyways, it’s known as a stone of protection. It’s supposedly filled with a storm within itself that protects its owner from the evils of natural disaster and suffering. It’s also supposedly a gem that helps those with addictions get over their vices. Rather handy little stone.” He smiled and looked down at the sparkling stone, “It’s… it also signifies reinvention, new… new beginnings. Rebuilding confidence in one’s abilities and helping them… start over.”

John pursed his lips and crossed his arms, “Well of course; I knew all that. That’s why I gave it to you. _Obviously_.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes up to John and grinned at his lover’s teasing, “ _Obviously_.” He rubbed the smooth stone betwixt his fingers and smiled sweetly, “This is… Thank you, John.”

John flushed and pursed his lips, “Yeah well don’t lose it. I might break your nose if you do.”

Sherlock jumped as a firework cracked off in the distance and John slipped his mobile from his pocket, checking the time.

“Dammit!” He hissed, looking up at Sherlock with a scowl, “It’s midnight!”

“Isn’t there something you’re supposed to do at midnight? Make a wish or something?” Sherlock questioned over the sudden cacophony of fireworks that cracked and exploded in the distance.

He suddenly felt his scarf jerked down and warm lips pressed against his as a line of firecrackers filled the sky. A warm hand cupped his cheek and Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh in relief that John still desired to kiss him. Perhaps there was another reason to add to why he loved New Year’s.

“Close enough,” John whispered against his skin with a smile as he released his grip on the starstruck detective. “Did you make one?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Honestly, John. Do you expect me to-?”

“Just do it!” John hollered playfully with a smile, earning him a groan from the detective who closed his eyes and picked something out of the air, opening his mouth to reveal it to John before his lips were covered again.

“Don’t you know _anything_ about them?” John moaned, rolling his eyes as he pulled back from Sherlock’s mouth. “Keep it to yourself!”

Sherlock sputtered and huffed his indignation, “You _just_ said you wanted me to make a bloody wish! How can I prove I did without telling you?”

John chuckled and shook his head, “I believe you. Just- just watch the fireworks, you idiot.”

John suddenly slipped to his knees and sat cross-legged on the ground as he lifted his eyes to the sky and watched reds and blues fill the atmosphere. Sherlock followed suit and smiled as John’s head gently leaned against his shoulder.

“I love you,” he said softly, earning him an earnest smile from the doctor.

“I know you do,” he replied quietly, scooting as close as he could to the warm detective. “Happy New Year’s, Sherlock.”

“Happy New Year’s, John,” he mumbled back, letting his still-gloved fingers intertwine with John’s as he lifted his face to the sky.

He’d been given new chances on all fronts and he was not about to let them go to waste.

His other hand slipped into his pocket and began to stroke the smooth stone, feeling John’s affection seep into his skin from both sides.

 _Happy New Year’s, Sherlock,_ he silently told himself. _Guess what?_

He smiled at the thought:

 _Now you get to start over._  


	17. The Definition of a Sociopath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Lewd and Lascivious Behavior, Mild Violence and Frightening Scenes.

“Sherlock, what are we even-?”

“Shut _up_ , John! For God’s sake, can’t you find a _more opportune_ time and place to be an idiot?”

John growled at his companion’s whispered irritation and continued to flick through the stacks of files in the dusty factory room. They had arrived at the abandoned building early in the evening and now it was well past midnight and John felt as if he was going cross-eyed from staring at so many sheets of time-yellowed paper.

“I’ll be an idiot when and where I _please_ ,” he hissed back dropping another stack of papers onto the mountainous pile to his side. “Besides, I haven’t seen _anything_.”

“Keep _looking_ ,” Sherlock bit quietly, cat eyes flicking quickly between two sheets before tossing them behind him. “I’m _right_ ; it _should_ be here!”

The exhausted doctor rolled his eyes and lowered them back to the numerous files in his hands.

_Find files on Derrick Heimer, Sherlock said. It’ll be fun, Sherlock said. Bollocks._

John groaned to himself silently and let his eyes wander to his companion. This was the first private case they’d been called on in _weeks_ and Sherlock was absolutely _frantic_ about it. Some bloke by the name of Bryan Barker got himself tied up with the wrong crowd came with the woeful story of said group kidnapping his wife and stealing his precious family heirloom to teach him a lesson. Within the first hour or so the detective had discovered the whereabouts of the missing wife (a lovely hotel room in Tuscany with a rather dashing tanned pool-boy lover, much to Mr. Barker’s chagrin) and immediately set off in search of the missing pendant of sapphire and gold ( _terrible, gaudy business)_.

“I need to know _why_ Heimer was in Burbank in June,” Sherlock whispered flicking through more files than John wanted to watch fall to the ground.

“Maybe because it was _summer_ and he was on _vacation_!” John hissed quietly, rolling his eyes. “People do that _all_ the time!”

 “He’s not just ‘ _people’_ ,” Sherlock mumbled, his scowl slowly morphing into a smile as he lifted one file from the rest and bounded across the room towards John. “Look! He was _fired_ June twelfth!”

John raised an eyebrow and pursed his lip, “And I suppose you expect that to mean something to me?”

Sherlock groaned and dipped his head back before there was a clatter in the hall, causing Sherlock to fold the file and jam it in his coat, “John, did you see someone follow us?”

John flicked his eyes to the door and stood slowly, shaking his head, “No, but I can’t image it’ll be pleasant company.” He jerked his head around and sternly grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, pulling him to his feet, “Come on!”

He yanked at Sherlock’s arm, dragging him quietly through a separate doorway and closing them into what seemed a long-disused supply closet. He pressed Sherlock as far back as he could and slid in front of him; their bodies flush against each other as he silently clicked the door shut and leaned back against his companion.

“John-”

John clapped a hand over the offending mouth as he heard the far door open and a group of individuals enter into the room they’d just vacated.

“This place is a _shithole_!” One hollered with a deep, grumbling voice dripping with years of abuse from cigarettes and alcohol.

There was a shuffle of papers as if someone had kicked over a stack of files and another man, slightly younger groaned, “Where the hell is Victor? He said he’d meet us a bloody hour ago!”

_An hour?_ John narrowed his eyes. _Perhaps we’ve been watched without the slightest idea. Lovely._

Sherlock tapped his shoulder and flicked up three fingers: three people.

John groaned inwardly. _Wonderful. Three here and one missing somewhere. Out-numbered two-to-one._

The detective set his chin on John’s shoulder and exhaled softly, closing his eyes. The men on the other side of the doorway had nothing to do with them nor would they gain anything by searching in a supply closet. Surely they had no worries as long as John could sit still with the adrenaline that was pouring off of him in waves.

_“Relax”,_ Sherlock wrote on John’s chest with a single digit and John’s tight shoulders loosened against him. If Sherlock wasn’t worried, that didn’t necessarily mean he shouldn’t be, but there was a likelihood he wouldn’t have to go shooting at someone because of Sherlock’s stupidity.

There was a _thunk_ of some heavy furniture crashing to the floor as the original speaker growled, _“_ _YA ub'yu etogo p'yanogo duraka!”_

_Russian?_ Sherlock’s palm gripped at John’s side and his thinned his lips. _What are Russians doing here?_

John tensed at the same realization and he slipped out his phone, knowing that he had placed it on silent as soon as he had thrown the detective into the closet. He tapped out on a blank message.

 

To: <insert number here>

_Can you understand them?_

 

Sherlock nodded and tapped back on John’s message.

 

To: <insert number here>

_Can you understand them? He is upset about someone named Victor._

 

The two jerked their heads up as another piece of decrepit furniture met its demise and the younger man whispered barely loud enough for Sherlock to pick up the sounds, “ _On budet zdes’. Chernyy medved' ne defolt po svoim platezham.”_

John waited a moment as Sherlock continued to type silently.

 

To: <insert number here>

_Can you understand them? He is upset about someone named Victor. ‘The black bear doesn’t default on payments.’ Drugs?_

 

John shrugged and leaned back against his detective as he listened to the arguing continue in a language he didn’t understand until the detective began to tense awfully tight as if something that had just transpired upset him terribly. He cocked his brow and looked back as Sherlock’s nose crinkled and suddenly there was a loud growling of foreign language on the other side of the door.

“We need to leave,” Sherlock whispered beneath the yelling, gripping John’s shoulder tight enough to leave a mark.

“How do you suppose we do _that?_ ” John hissed back, turning slightly with a scowl. “You wanna just run in there gun blazing? Because that’s about the extent of the plan we’ve got.”

“If we don’t soon, we might not get the _chance_ to,” Sherlock hummed, slipping past his companion and pressing his face against the doorframe and through the slight crack between it and the door. Two men, the large original speaker and another mid-sized man who had yet to speak, stood on the far side of the room facing their door whilst the younger, thinner man paced back and forth before them; hollering some nonsense about shipment plans. No weapons were visible and Sherlock almost swung open the door until the silent man lifted his arm from around his chest and aimed a Tokorev pistol straight for the smaller man and unwittingly towards the closet door. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he jerked back, lead biting through the wood and managing to nick the bottom corner of his Belstaff while sending his heart into his throat.

“You all right?” John whispered, hugging Sherlock from behind as he knocked into him quietly to which he responded with a breathless nod; both men standing still as statues to avoid any further interaction with flying lead.

The yelling match grew louder and more violent until the ground shuddered and John gripped Sherlock’s side, “What was that?”

Cat eyes narrowed and Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, “Get ready to run.”

“ _Run?”_ John spat, his eyes growing wide with apprehension. “How the hell do you expect me to _run_? I was _planning_ on _running_ today!”

“Yes, well it’s either _run_ or get crushed by a building, John. Take your pick,” Sherlock hummed quietly as the ground shuddered again and the men in the room began to mutter in the foreign language anxiously before the larger man hollered and grabbed the youngest man by the scruff of the neck.

“ _Yeblya Dmitri! On nashel nas! Begi!”_

“Here’s our chance,” Sherlock whispered, pressing his face against the door and watching as the three men bolted out of the room and down the hall and the ground shuddered again.

“What do you mean ‘crumbling building’, Sherlock? Are those _bombs_?” John hissed as Sherlock grabbed his hand and jerked the door open.

“Would it make you run any faster if I said ‘yes’?” Sherlock quipped, dragging his companion over the myriads of spread out files and into the adjoining hallway.

John ground his teeth and his cheeks flushed hot red with irritation, “I swear to God, Sherlock, I am going to _kill_ you!”

“Not before the _building_ does,” came the sing-song reply, as they heard the three men begin to shout and holler at one another closer towards the entrance they used to break in.

“What is going _on_ , Sherlock?” John demanded harshly, following the hurried steps of his companion who turned to look behind them for only a moment.

“A man named Dmitri is obviously a little outdone with our friends in the room,” he said calmly. “Drug trafficking is quite nasty business after all.”

“And we just _happened_ to stumble upon them? What luck!” John growled, gripping at his aching side with his free hand as he heard the ceiling begin to creak and crack from the impact of unknown explosives.

“I never said fortune was on our side, John,” Sherlock scowled as the walls of the ancient building began to creak and groan and he jerked John’s wrist harder; tearing out of the building with only moments to spare before the majority of the infrastructure began to collapse in upon itself.

Several tons of brick and concrete began to whine as the ceiling caved in upon itself and suddenly there was a terrible cry of metal scraping against brick as a mushroom of dust filled the air and left the two men sputtering and coughing. Sherlock continued to pull at John’s wrist until they found themselves at the abandoned fencing; large concrete posts connecting the beams of railing that surrounded them.

“Sherlock- _wait_ ,” John groaned, clutching at his side slowing his feet until he seemed to trip over himself. The world around him seemed to spin and suddenly where darkening blue sky was supposed to be, there was grass and dirt and he closed his eyes as he heard Sherlock’s voice call from a mile away.

Sherlock dusted his hand against John’s brow and gripped his cheek, “ _John!_ Are you all right?”

“That… doesn’t feel right,” John mumbled, feeling Sherlock help lift him and brush off the dirt on his cheek.

“What do I do? Are you bleeding? Please don’t do this again!” Sherlock pressed, cat eyes wide and flitting around John’s face as he slumped against Sherlock’s torso.

“Just… just give me a minute,” he gasped out, clutching at his side and putting pressure against it as if to stifle the pain that was radiating through his entire frame. “I shouldn’t be… _fuck_ , that hurts.” He flicked an eye up behind him and subsequently rolled them, “Sherlock, I’m not _dying_ so stop looking like I’m a ghost. I’m _fine_ , just _give_ me a second.”

Sherlock smiled sadly and pressed a kiss to John’s brow, feeling his pattering heart beat through his shoulder blades before familiar dark voices came up behind them _, “_ _Kto ty, chert voz'mi?”_

Sherlock turned just in time to see the silver of the pistol glint in the last shimmer of the evening sun and as he scrabbled to his feet and grabbed his companion by the shoulders, hurriedly dragging him behind one of the still standing concrete posts.

“John!” He called out, pressing him against the post before a bullet ricocheted on their column; chipping bits of concrete into the air already polluted by dust.

“You are going to be the bloody death of me, you _idiot,”_ John growled, slipping his illegal firearm from behind him and turning on his side to catch a similar glimpse of the silver weapon before firing off a round of his own.

There was a vicious curse as if in the hazy air John had _actually_ made contact with something just before there was the hush of feet against grass and John slumped back against the column and sucked in a deep breath, allowing his chest to expand and compress before looking back up to his companion, “And exactly _who_ were _they_?”

Sherlock pinched his lip and shrugged, “How should I know? I _am_ curious to find out though.”

“Are they gone?” John mumbled, knocking his head gently against the concrete pole and looking at the sky.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said honestly, peeking around the column and narrowing his eyes. “I can’t see anything. I don’t hear them, though.”

“Is there another way to get out of here?” John queried, crinkling his nose as he delicately pulled himself to his feet and continued to keep pressure on his healing wound. “Surely you know of _some_ way we can avoid being shot at.”

“With _my_ record? _Ehh_ ,” Sherlock hummed with a facetious expression as he spun around and squinted with the opaque dust that continued to fill the air. “If you can’t run, I’d rather not risk it.”

“I can do what I bloody well _please_ ,” John bit back with a grimace before peeking out around the columns and scowling. “Come on. I’d rather get shot moving than stay sitting ducks.”

“ _Your_ funeral,” Sherlock quipped before narrowly dodging a testy blow to the cusp of his ear from the irritated doctor.

The soldier kept his weapon drawn and quietly traversed the short distance to where the Russian men had been and knelt down, sticking his fingers in a dark puddle of rusty dirt.

“I managed to nick one of them at least,” he said plainly, lifting his gaze as he looked around. “Little more than a graze, though. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to pull any hospital records in the near future; they’ll just patch it up and call it a day.”

“Black Bear,” Sherlock hummed, steepling his hands before his face. “I feel like I’ve heard that before. Why do I feel like I’ve heard that before?”

John rolled his eyes and resolved to leave the detective to his personal questioning before he turned back down the road whence they entered the property, narrowing his eyes for any sign of life that wasn’t in his immediate vicinity. Suddenly there was an excited “ _Ah-ha!_ ” that caused John to spin around to find Sherlock directly in his face.

“Heimer and Barker were in Burbank _together_ last June!” He jerked the file from his coat pocket and brushed it into John’s face. “Look! It all makes sense!”

“Oh does it now?” John groaned, not sure in the slightest what the bloody detective was on about. “So glad you figured it out; what’s the verdict?”

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “Oh come now, John. It doesn’t take-”

One silent glare from the doctor was enough to nip that train of thought in the bud and Sherlock sighed, “Don’t you remember? Barker’s wife went with him on his business trip to California and now that we know Heimer was there at the same time, we can deduce the likelihood that they might have met!”

John cocked a brow as he began to walk down the path back to the main road, weapon still drawn, and the detective followed after, “In a state larger than our _entire_ country? Seems a little farfetched, don’t you think?”

“Improbable, but not _impossible_ ,” Sherlock disputed, gesturing to the file in his hands again. “It all makes sense! Heimer met Barker and his wife and the wife and he concocted a plan to steal the pendant! That way when Barker goes to check through his wife’s belongings he won’t find it because she doesn’t _actually_ have it! It’s brilliant- completely cliché- but easy enough to dupe the simple mind of Bryan Barker.”

“So who do you arrest?” John questioned as his side pain began to ease and his heart rate simmered down to a normal thrum.

“Both of them, _obviously_ ,” Sherlock moaned, folding the file and putting it back in his pocket. “Don’t be so dull, John. Now about this ‘Black Bear’…”

John rolled his eyes and shoved his fists into his pockets as they continued to walk, now free of hazy air and finally back into the city. As they found themselves in the Holly slums of London, John listened carefully for any noises of unwanted company as they passed lodging buildings- long ago abandoned by the tile makers and factory workers that once resided there- and was pleased to find absolutely nothing of the sort until a bullet ricocheted against the brick near his head and he yelped out; grabbing Sherlock’s collar and throwing him to the ground behind him. He slipped his weapon back out and fired at the black gloved hand he just barely saw in the distance as he felt the detective clamber to his feet against his back. There was a crude holler and the weapon found its way to the ground before Sherlock suddenly set off in pursuit of the dark figure with John grumbling at his heels.

“You can’t just run after everyone and everything and expect that you’re not gonna get _shot_ ,” John chided, his eyes creasing with pain at his side as Sherlock rounded the far building and smiled.

“You seem to be doing a rather exemplary job of keeping it from happening thus far.”

Their suspect turned his head slightly and at the sight of her pursuers, he began to sprint faster than John’s battered body could carry him and he began to fear the detective was going to _actually_ get himself hurt all for the sake of curiosity.

“Sherlock- wait!” He hollered as the detective zoomed around another corner and out of his sight before he could make the turn. His chest pattered in his chest as he finally did and to his horror, no detective was to be found. He chased down the street, his chest and abdomen burning with concern and tension just before he caught the sound of someone crying and the dark of Sherlock’s greatcoat disappearing behind a far alleyway. “ _Sherlock!”_

The detective had known John would slow down as soon as the sandy-haired had started to wheeze with discomfort, but he had been _so_ determined to catch this suspect and find out exactly what information they were missing that he kept on and left him behind. What better case is there than something related to large-scale trafficking that ends up with one almost being blown to smithereens? Those are certainly the most _exciting_ cases, if nothing else. However, as he rounded Poutron Street, he caught a glimpse of something that roiled his gut and extinguished any excitement for the thrill of the chase in his gut.

A young girl, no more than seventeen or so, lay face down against the dusted concrete at the far end of the alley, her tanned skin obviously bruised even in the dark of the evening and her full dark hair splayed out in every direction as she struggled beneath the weight of a large pale man. Said man’s hand gripped at the young girl’s hair and slammed her cheek into the concrete as he mounted her from behind.

“ _Stop it!_ ” The young woman cried and Sherlock’s heart broke at the lack of depth in her young voice. Her words were almost overcome with squeals that echoed in the dark hall, “Please, let me _go_! _Help me_!”

There was another cry as the man did something to the girl’s face that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out in the darkness. “No one’s gonna hear you _cry_ , little girl,” the man growled loud enough for Sherlock to hear from a few meters away. “And don’t worry. I’ll make you _like_ it!”

_An abandoned slum alley at night with no one around: a perfect place to destroy someone’s life_ , Sherlock thought sourly as something white-hot boiled in his chest as he turned a sharp corner and left his Russian suspect completely overlooked. _Not_ _if I have anything to say about it._

The young woman sobbed loudly as the rather menacing-looking man clamored on top of her and lifted her hips, pressing his hand against her nude skin while her cheekbone continued to grind into the asphalt that was outlined by dirt and grass on either side nearest the wall.

“Why are you _doing_ this? Lemmegolemmego- Let. Me. _Go_!” The girl screamed with a voice choked by emotion and pain as she writhed about beneath the man attempting to unhinge him from his perch.

Sherlock’s gut wrenched with ice as he heard the girl cry out while the man finally relieved her of her skirt and he felt something in his chest he’d never felt before: something akin to raging flames that burned through his core out into his fingertips and suddenly he found himself face to face with the man he held against the brick alley wall by his throat.

The man gagged and Sherlock finally took a second to realize he was suspending this entire human being with a single hand up against the wall and took a bit of pride in his moment of John-like-heroism. _Perhaps what they say about adrenaline rushes isn’t all codswallop._

“The _hell_?” The man hissed, kicking out at Sherlock’s body but missing with his limited range of motion.

“You will regret this night,” Sherlock murmured harshly, jamming the heel of his palm against the assailant’s Adam’s apple.

“Sherlock!”

The detective didn’t turn at the sound of John’s voice down the alley way, and keep his ice-cold stare boring holes in the monster’s head as he nonchalantly called back, “Yes, John, I am completely fine; you needn’t worry. May I see your firearm for the shortest moment, love?”

John seemed to stop in his tracks for a moment as he took in the entire sight and slowly walked the distance from the road to where Sherlock was, his weapon still drawn. His eyes widened as he finally caught a glimpse of his lover’s face and his stomach dropped. In the entirety of the time he had known the eccentric man, he had never seen such an expression of sincere _loathing_ and _blood-lust_ fill those cerulean eyes that sat upon the coolest and most tranquil, pale face the detective had ever donned. Besides his practiced serenity, the man looked practically feral; his hair blown about and his eyes alight with madness and fury… _was he holding that man up with ONE arm?_ John half-considered not handing over his weapon, but he did have _some_ faith in the man he called his own after all. He slowly lifted the gun by the barrel so that the detective only had to read out for the handle.

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” Gloved fingers wrapped delicately around the weapon before he jerked it from John’s hands and thrust it directly at the base of the man’s exposed penis.

“W-what are you _doing_?” The man whimpered, his dark green eyes, alight with sincere horror as he met the detective’s, who only snarled back at him.

“You _dared_ to hurt someone in this shameful way,” he growled, digging the barrel deeper into the man’s lower abdomen, fully aware of the heavy bruise he was leaving. “You had the _gall_ to try and destroy this girl’s life with your selfish lust for power and cruelty.”

“Sherlock?” John warned softly, watching with wide eyes as Sherlock’s grip on the man’s throat became tighter until he could swear he was preventing the entirety of the man’s blood from reaching his head.

Sherlock drew his face close to the rapist’s face and snarled with a ferocity that John had never been personally privy to, unsettling him to his very bones, “You should thank your lucky stars my companion is here for the _only_ pity you will receive is from him. If it were up to _me_ ,” he jammed the barrel of John’s gun against his lower abdomen and gestured to his flagging erection, “I would eradicate your physical ability to _ever_ violate someone again.” He cocked a brow and smiled wryly, his teeth bared in a savage grin, “You know, I might do it for the sheer _amusement_ of it _anyways.”_

John’s heart stopped in his chest and he jerked his hand out to prevent the detective from _actually_ castrating the man against the wall, “Sherlock!”

He suddenly covered his ears and yelped as a bullet was suddenly loosed from the barrel of the gun.

After a moment, John lifted his eyes and watched cautiously while Sherlock smirked at his victim. The man he held against the wall began to urinate in fear directly above the new bullet hole in the ground and it sent a deeply satisfying sensation into his gut.

“ _I_ think that was terribly entertaining, don’t you?” He asked softly before lifting his hand and dropping him gracelessly on the ground; grinning with devilish pleasure as the disgusting creature slumped into his own filth. He gently handed the weapon back to his friend and turned away, “Your turn. Make sure he doesn’t get away.”

John silently accepted the weapon and glanced at the wretched creature that crumpled at his feet. As he tried to climb to his knees, John decided to make life easier for everyone involved and cracked his Sig against the man’s temple; watching with disgust as he slumped forward into the slushed dirt below him.

As he turned away from his companion, Sherlock’s entire demeanor did a one-eighty and he slipped his greatcoat off as he gently padded to the girl sobbing on the ground. He carefully draped the comforting material over the young woman clad in a lifted tan skirt and thin green jumper; kneeling at her face and slipping his glove off to brush the fringe from her dark eyes.

“You’re all right, love,” he soothed softly, his expression open and comforting as leaned down towards her. “No one is going to hurt you any longer.”

The dark-skinned girl wept harshly and unwittingly pulled the coat tighter around herself as she curled into a ball on the ground. Sherlock’s hand continued to gently pet the thick hair from her face and his voice was saturated in genuine sympathy and concern, “You’re all right, darling. You’re going to be just fine. Just relax.”

John swore he’d have whiplash from the severe difference in personalities the detective just exhibited. For a moment, he’d actually been a tad alarmed by his companion’s vicious behavior, but now his lover was exhibiting the most tender care to this young woman that curled before him. John pursed his lips as he thought about it for he couldn’t quite remember Sherlock _ever_ being _that_ tender, even with _him_. _What an odd situation._

Sherlock shifted on his legs so that he was sitting cross-legged in front of the girl’s face and as she continued to sob, he continued to mollify her, “Shhh, you’re all right. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

The girl minutely opened her eyes and Sherlock smiled at her before pointing to the doctor a few meters away, “See that man?” The young woman sniffed and nodded weakly, pulling Sherlock’s coat tighter around her body like a security blanket. The detective smiled and raked his hand through the dark, straight hair again, “That’s John Watson. He’ll keep us both safe, all right? I promise, you’re safe now.”

The young woman’s face pinched in another sob and she curled tighter around herself before Sherlock’s soothing baritone cut into her thoughts again as he tilted his head, “My name is Sherlock. What shall I call you?”

A tanned hand slipped from beneath Sherlock’s coat and scrubbed at her face before a cracked voice whispered back, “M-Maira, s-sir.”

Sherlock shook his head and let his hand cup the girl’s cheek gently, “No, you needn’t call me that.” The girl seemed to not startle at Sherlock’s touch and he took it as a good sign, “Maira, my friend John and I are going to help you, all right?”

The girl’s face crumpled again and she tucked it into the heavy cotton coat, shaking her head and causing Sherlock to brush her hair back again, “Shhh, it’s okay. It’ll be all right, love.”

“Y-you don’t know me,” Maira mumbled, suddenly inching away from Sherlock’s touch. “Just go _away_!”

Sherlock pursed his lips and leaned forward, “I know you’re a second generation family from the Delhi area of India and that your family now lives in the Borough of Newham; that you’re between the ages of sixteen and eighteen and that you’re currently enrolled in a state school.” He cocked his head and retracted his hand from all contact, “I also know you own two lapdogs- Yorkshire Terriers if I’m not mistaken- and have a younger sister who wears your clothes without permission.”

The girl lifted a wary eye before John knelt down next to Sherlock and attempted a comforting smile, “It’s just one of his party tricks; doesn’t make him very many friends either.”

Tan hands covered her face as she cringed underneath the coat that practically swallowed her small frame and wept, “Just leave me _alone_!”

The detective pursed his lips and leaned down, brushing her quivering fringe from her eyes and speaking in a voice so soft, so _delicate_ that John half-considered attempting to record it for actual _proof_ , “Maira, love, will you look at me for just a moment?”

Although her face pinched in a sob, she managed to lift her face to find Sherlock’s eyes wide and open looking back at her. He half-smiled and creased his eyes with genuine concern, “I know you’re frightened, but you’re going to be all right. However, I promise you: being left alone is the _last_ thing you need right now.”

“You don’t know what I need! Who are you _anyways_?” She squealed, her voice still rough from weeping. She swallowed thickly and shook her head, meeting Sherlock’s face with bloodshot, dark chocolate eyes, “Look, I-I don’t need your help- just go _away_.”

John pursed his lips and readied himself for Sherlock’s lack of patience, but was whole-heartedly _stunned_ as he watched the detective unbutton his suit jacket and sleeve and roll the light blue fabric up to expose his damaged forearm to the girl who stared at it dumbly for a moment before lifting her eyes back up. Sherlock’s expression was the most open and honest John could ever remember seeing and his voice was gentle and sweet, “I _do_ understand, Maira.” He blinked and his sullen expression softened even more so as the girl pushed herself to a sitting position and wrapped Sherlock’s heavy coat around her frame. “I’ve _been_ you,” he mumbled quietly, tracing a finger over a raised pink bite of skin, “And I don’t want it to hurt you as much as it did me.”

At first, she seemed not to correlate the two points before her eyes widened with realization. “You…” She started, but never finished as she folded in on herself and sobbed, raking Sherlock’s sleeve across her scraped cheek, “I- I don’t understand. _Why_?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly and exposed his palms, “Because humans are _cruel_ , Maira.” He furrowed his brow and clasped his hands, “They are callous and cruel and want nothing more than to exhibit their power over others. Besides that, there is no _real_ ‘why’.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she gagged suddenly, her dark hair slipping into her face before she clutched at her abdomen and twisted to the side.

Sherlock immediately pulled her hair into a messy ball as she leaned forward and spat into the concrete and groaned; the detective humming comfort quietly as John stared on at the strange sight, “You’re all right, love. Shhh, it’s going to be all right.”

“N-no it’s _not_ ,” she cried, hunching forward and jerking her hair out of Sherlock’s gentle hands. “He- he- oh my God- he t-t-”

“Yes, he did,” Sherlock admitted softly, leaning forward and tipping her chin up gently, feeling saline slip onto his finger as he did so. “He did and everything you’re feeling is perfectly _natural_. It’s going to hurt- _terribly-_ and I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s true. It’s going to feel _awful_ and you won’t feel like yourself for a _long_ while, but you’ll be all right.”

Her face crumpled before him again and she curled in on herself, making her seem as small as possible as she was consumed by grief and Sherlock’s heavy coat. Sherlock sat on his knees and brushed hand over her shoulder, sending a concerned glance towards his companion.

John reached out to grip his hand before the detective was covered with a heavy coat as the young girl wrapped her arms around his neck and nearly toppled him over.

Sherlock seemed just as stunned as John and took a moment to look down at the messy black hair beneath his chin before he could pull his thoughts together. _This girl wants security,_ he thought as he gently wrapped his arms around her torso and rested a hand at the base of her head. _The least you can do is give her that._ He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her crown as he felt her body tremble with another set of sobs, “Shhh, love. I’ve got you. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

She rubbed her cheeks on his shoulder, staining the dark suit with tears of despondency, and moaned, “I want my _amma._ ”

He exhaled sharply as he felt his breaking heart bleed for the girl in his arms. There was no need to understand the foreign word to know what she was yearning for. Although he’d never admit it, the thought _had_ crossed his mind that his mother’s embrace would soothe away all the pain as it used to when he was a child. Perhaps this young woman had the opportunity to make that a reality, “I know, love. I know you do. Shhh, we’ll get you to her as soon as we can, all right?”

Her embrace became tighter and tighter as her breathing became more erratic and she shook her head, “I wasn’t even supposed to _be_ here. I came to see my brother and he went out and I wanted to go out too and now I- I- Oh my God!”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed, his still-gloved hand petting her hair straight down, “This isn’t your fault.”

The doctor was nigh concerned the girl was about to faint from a lack of oxygen as she continued to ramble on, “I just wanted his friends to like me and I didn’t want to be alone and his friends gave me something to drink and I don’t- I can’t- what have I _done_?”

The detective pulled her away from his chest and cupped her cheek with his bare hand, “Maira, look at me. Look me in the eye.”

She did so and his expression was stern, yet concerned as he tried his best to comfort her the way John comforted him, “You _must_ understand: this is _not_ your fault. None of it- not a single bloody bit. You have done _nothing_ wrong; please believe that.”

She shook her head and her chest tightened with emotion, “No! This is- I shouldn’t have- Oh my God, I can’t-!”

“Maira, you must _breathe_ ,” Sherlock urged, eyes widening with concern as she slightly slumped forward into his hands. “ _Breathe_ , love.” He rubbed tenderly at her bruised cheekbone and pulled up straight, exhibiting his desire for her to do the same, “You can handle this. You said you didn’t need help, so show me you can do this.”

He listened to her wheeze, silently finding that she, too, was a victim of childhood asthma, and furrowed his brow as he tried to think of something to calm her racing mind. Certainly there was _something_ he’d heard once… _Ah! Oh how did that go again? Come on, THINK!_

Sherlock pinched his eyes and screwed up his face as he tried to remember the droning hum of a mantra he’d heard someone of Indian descent meditating within his vast travels. He wasn’t humming, and he was certain he was mispronouncing absolutely everything, but he hoped that perhaps his feeble attempts would mollify the girl even so, “ _Om… Gum… Gah-nah… pah-ay… Na… mah?”_ He flicked his eyes open and crinkled his nose and smiled awkwardly, “That wasn’t right at _all,_ was it?”

The girl shook her head and weakly smiled through her gasping. She began to hum a droning note for the number of syllables that Sherlock had attempted and he watched her curiously as she forced herself to swallow deep breaths. He continued to trace her cheek bone as she closed her eyes and focused on her frantic lungs; mumbled whispers of the mantra’s correct pronunciation filling the chilled night air.

“ _Om Gum Ganapatayei Namaha,”_ she hummed, dipping her head into Sherlock’s hands and repeating the phrase breathlessly as he watched her.

“That’s a good girl,” the detective soothed, smiling sweetly and momentarily pressing his lips to her brow. “You’re doing splendidly.”

John watched silently from the sidelines, knowing that he was for the most part forgotten about, and half-smiled internally. To see this side of his detective, to watch how gentle and caring he could be, warmed his heart. Sherlock had finally seemed to _accept_ what had happened, and not only that, but now he was _utilizing_ his unfortunate experience in order to help another broken heart.

_Empathy_ , John thought with a smile as he caught a glimpse of Maira wrapping her arms around the detective again as her despondency began to settle. _Sociopaths are defined by their lack of empathy. You idiot; you aren’t lacking anything._

“Did he actually _hurt_ you?” Sherlock finally whispered while the girl’s arms were still around his neck and she slowly shook her head.

“He just…” She started as she began to tremble again, “He just-”

“Shhh, I don’t need to know,” Sherlock replied quietly, gripping her tight to him to stop her nervous quivering. He smiled and leaned close to her ear, “It’s just that hiding a body is terribly tedious and I’d rather not have to spend the time if not necessary.”

For the first time that evening, Maira smiled and hugged her savior snugly, letting her hair cover her face, “Thank you.”

Intense warmth burned in the detective’s chest as he pulled away from her and smiled, tucking a few black strands behind her ear, “Of course. Are you all right? Can you stand?”

She chewed her lips and hugged the greatcoat tightly around her frame, to which Sherlock immediately replied with a half-smile, “That will cover you to your ankles, love. You needn’t fret.”

Dark lashes fluttered against bruised cheeks as Maria glanced at the ground and began to push herself to her feet. The detective immediately stood to his own, and cupped the girl’s elbow in his large palm; lifting her where she began to wobble and helping her remain upright as she finally reached her miniature height.

“May I see your cheek, love?” John suddenly asked after something on her face caught his eye, startling the poor girl and earning her skeptical judgment. He extended his palms for inspection, “You can ask him, Maira. I’m a doctor; I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Maira flicked her eyes to Sherlock’s open expression before she finally nodded and stood still for examination.

John smiled at her softly as he handed Sherlock his mobile and set on the light, “Hold that up, will you?”

Sherlock did as was requested and John leaned forward in the light to see the entirety of the damage that had been done to her.

“Will you look up for me, sweetheart?” John asked softly, his breath turning to smoke in the late winter chill.

She lifted her gaze to the sky and John crinkled his nose, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, “Well, obviously you’ve got some minor abrasions on your cheek, so if you just clean it out, you should be fine. Unfortunately, you’ve also got a bit of a subconjunctival hemorrhage right at the bottom of your right eye.”

The girl’s expression suddenly became grave, so John shook his head and smiled, “No, no, it’s nothing bad. Just a little bit of blood in your eye- well that doesn’t sound any better- look, you’re _fine_. It’ll go away on its own in a week or two; nothing to worry about.”

She seemed to settle a bit with that information and leaned into Sherlock’s chest, earning her a gasp at the unexpected contact, “I’m cold.”

Sherlock flicked an eye towards John before lifting his hands and unfurling the new deep navy scarf from around his neck. He slipped it around her dark one and tied it loosely, rubbing gently on her shoulders with a smile, “It’s not much, but it should help. Now where should we take you?”

Sherlock pursed his lips as the wind seemed to bite right through his coat and cause the girl to shiver, “I want to go home. Home-home.”

Sherlock smiled and pressed on her shoulder, keeping her under his wing as John silently followed suit behind, “All right. Let’s get you there, then.”

 

***

 

Before the clock had struck midnight, a healthy fire glowed in the confines of Baker Street and the consulting detective perched in his teal chair to stare at it.

“Forty-two,” John said softly as he placed a steaming cup of tea at Sherlock’s side, abruptly pulling the man from his reveries.

“I’m sorry?”

John smiled and tapped on Sherlock’s lifted knee, “Forty-two: that’s the answer to life and you certainly look like you’re searching for it.”

“Oh,” the detective answered absently, lowering his legs and distractedly placing his thumb betwixt his teeth.

“Lestrade picked that bastard up,” John tried, obviously slightly miffed at Sherlock’s apparent lack of cognizance. His attempt was met with silence and he groaned before gently settling himself in his lover’s lap.

Dark hair bounced when Sherlock suddenly jerked his head up as a heavy force rested on his thighs and settled against his chest, “John?”

“Does this bother you?” He asked back, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as his mug-warmed hands searched for elegant ones cooled by absent-minded stillness.

“Not- what? No. I’m just getting used to it still,” Sherlock mumbled, wrapping one arm around John’s torso and allowing his other hand to succumb to John’s experimentation.

“What’s on your mind?” John pressed, splaying the hand in his own open and rubbing tenderly at the lithe muscles that brother wonderful music to their lives.

“Nothing, John. I’m merely thinking,” he grumbled, watching John’s hands move against his own curiously. Those hands were so small and yet so strong; unassuming like their owner.

“Imagine that,” John teased, looking up and pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. As he pulled away he furrowed his brow and tilted his head, “Talk to me, Sherlock. Don’t shut me out. It’s never worked for you before.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and leaned his head back against the back of his chair silently, slightly sighing as he glanced at the ceiling and continued to sense John’s hands on his own.

“You saved her, you know.”

The detective jerked his head back up and met John’s open and honest expression, “What?”

John thinned his lips and lowered his gaze to the elegant hand he had control over, “That young woman, Maira. You saved her.”

Sherlock sniffed and leaned his head back again, “Don’t make me into something I’m not, John. There are no such things as ‘heroes’ and even if there _were_ , I’d most assuredly not be considered one.”

“Hmmm,” John hummed, pressing against the flesh of Sherlock’s palm. “Well you’d certainly look dreadful in a cape.”

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could not entirely contain his grin and he rolled his eyes.

“It still must not have been easy,” John mumbled, keeping his eyes from Sherlock’s as to not impede his honest expressions.

“Oh come now, John,” Sherlock groaned, lifting a hand on John’s back and kneading against the tight shoulder blade. “It hardly takes a modicum of effort to make someone regret their decisions. Inciting terror is relatively easy with those of weak minds.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” John replied sternly, flicking an eye up to the detective and back down.

The detective stiffened under John’s frame and to his surprise, began to shut down, “I’d rather not continue this line of conversation.”

The blonde head furrowed and he shifted in Sherlock’s lap to face him, “Why not?”

“Why _so_?” He asked crossly, pulling his hand away from John and raking it through his hair. “You’re making this into a fiction of heroic acts when there is nothing to be commended for. Any decent human being would have done the same; just because I didn’t turn a blind eye doesn’t make me any better.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t just _not_ turn a blind eye,” John corrected, lifting his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek and force him to meet his gaze. “Sherlock, I…” He stopped himself and thinned his lips, trying to look for the correct terms. “You impressed me,” he finally pulled out, earning him a confused brow from his companion.

Sherlock crinkled his nose and scoffed, “That doesn’t take much effort, John.” As soon as the words slipped out of his mouth, his eyes flicked back to the doctor’s; wondering exactly what he’d meant. Sure, the man was constantly showering Sherlock in adoration as was his modus operandi, but this wasn’t the normal ‘ _that was brilliant, Sherlock!’_ or _‘amazing’_. No, this was John trying to prove a point and at the moment, he was doing a rather shoddy job of it.

“That may be so, but it’s nonetheless true,” John retorted, thinning his lips. He shrugged and rubbed gently on Sherlock’s cheekbone. “I don’t believe I’d have the bollocks to do it.”

“I have most certainly seen you incite terror into the hearts of men, John,” Sherlock sniffed, leaning his cheek into John’s palm and reveling in the soft warmth that greeted him.

“But you’ve never seen me expose myself,” he mumbled back, waiting for Sherlock’s eyes to lift to meet his own. “And you’ve most certainly never seen me earn someone’s trust that fast.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, John,” the detective grumbled, keeping his eyes away from his companion’s. “You’re speaking in riddles and it’s tedious.”

“You were someone she could relate to,” John pressed, gripping Sherlock’s cheek. “Not only did you tell her that she was gonna be okay, you made her _believe_ it.” He thinned his lips and shrugged, lowering his eyes, “You were someone she could cling to.”

Sherlock stiffened and gently pulled John’s hand from his face, “Yes, well she’s a _child_. They need coddling; I however, do _not_.”

“Not saying that you do,” John replied, intertwining his fingers in the hand that gripped his. “I just… I’m…” He groaned as no eloquent words or phrases came to his author’s mind and resorted to wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and mumbling against his cheek, “I love you.”

Shocked, Sherlock slowly lifted his arm to wrap around John’s chest, “I… love you, too.”

John smiled as he pulled away and shifted on Sherlock’s lap as if he were about to depart, “I’m off to bed then. Should I expect you?”

Dumbly, Sherlock shook his head and looked to the ground as if embarrassed and John took that as the cue to leave him alone, “Alright.” He leaned forward and pressed his warm lips to Sherlock’s brow before pulling away and onto his feet.

“John, wait.”

The doctor turned back as long fingers wrapped around his wrist and he furrowed his brow as the detective flushed bright red. His deep voice was hardly audible as it reached a soft hum, “Stay.”

There was a light tugging at his arm and John relinquished his stance, allowing Sherlock to pull him back down to his lap and to lean against his chest. Long arms wrapped around his torso and a messy head of ebony hair settled on his shoulder, facing away from him.

John sighed happily and settled against his lover, closing his eyes and sensing the soft sway of their bodies with every breath; every heartbeat melding their forms closer and in more intimate ways as they remained motionless in their perch. He could feel Sherlock’s quiet voice before he could hear it and he placed his hands over the detective’s, “Don’t turn around.”

Initially, John quirked a brow, but then resolved to keep his eyes closed and his head leaned back so as not to upset the man behind him. Several times, Sherlock had hinted to the notion that he loathed eye contact when he was exposing the tender flesh of his heart and John was not about to jeopardize this reveal for the sake of _looking_ at him.

Hot air breathed against his shoulder as the taller man sighed and slightly shook his head, “I was… _terrified_ when it… when that happened to me. I felt so ashamed of my own skin and so unequivocally… _alone._ She didn’t deserve that. She’s a _child_ ; she’s done nothing _wrong_.”

“I’ll remind you that you haven’t either,” John replied softly, gripping Sherlock’s hand in his own and pressing it against his chest.

“You’d be surprised, John,” he remarked nigh silently, nuzzling his cheek against the soft jumper. “Either way… I didn’t…” He sighed and closed his eyes, “I didn’t want her to become lost. People are heartless and cold and filled with insatiable appetites for power over others and it… I- She needn’t be afraid of them.”

Both men were silent for a moment before John’s soft tenor filled the air, “You could have just told her, but you showed your arm. Why?”

There was a heavy sigh and Sherlock shrugged, “It was the only way I could think of to make her see how destructive it is. I wanted her to believe me and I… I didn’t know what else to do.”

John pressed Sherlock’s lam against his thrumming heart and smiled, “You were wonderful. Absolutely marvelous.”

Sherlock flushed and John could feel the heat burning against his skin so he changed the topic to something that- in hindsight- probably didn’t actually help his blushing at all, “Sherlock, have you ever wanted to be a father?”

Long fingers jerked on John’s chest as his companion startled at the question but soon he felt a meek nod against his shoulder, “I have. I… I love children. They’re innocent and full of wonder; wanting to dissect everything with curiosity without having to _destroy_ it. They’re content to just _learn_ without being hateful about it.”

John smiled and sighed happily, “I think you’d make a wonderful one.”

“No I wouldn’t,” came the immediate reply that earned John’s cocked brow.

“And just why not?”

Sherlock shook his head and puffed out his cheeks, “I’m selfish, rude and terribly arrogant. None of my qualities are redeeming enough to be conducive of a healthy growing atmosphere. I’m not even in control of my _own_ life; how could I be responsible for a helpless child’s? Besides, I can’t _feel_ the same way others do. I’m-”

“ _Not_ a sociopath,” John interrupted, gripping Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own. “The only people who think you are are the ones that don’t understand you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrunk back into his seat a bit, “Either way, I’m a bit lacking in that department. If you haven’t noticed, neither of us are equipped to bear offspring.”

John chuckled and leaned back against him, “I suppose you’re right, but it is a nice thought nonetheless.” He smiled and flicked an eye down to his friend, “Besides, the world can only handle one Sherlock Holmes at a time; I think it might implode if there was a little one as well. London might _never_ recover.”

_Finally_ , a smile cracked along Sherlock’s face and he laughed softly, “Mycroft adores children, too.”

John grinned and closed his eyes, “Oh?”

Sherlock nodded and set his chin on John’s shoulder, finally looking at him, “He almost was a father once.”

John exhaled sharply and turned about, eying Sherlock sternly, “ _What_?”

Sherlock thinned his lips and explained, “He was engaged to a young French woman after he graduated from Uni and before he went into the government.” He shrugged and looked away, “She was sincerely aesthetically pleasing; long, red hair and she was _unique._ She had heterochromia and her eyes would change color based on her moods; absolutely _fascinating_ stuff. Anyways, I was in sixth form at the time, and he told me they’d gotten pregnant when he came home for Christmas.” He turned his head back and looked up sadly at his lover, “He was so dreadfully excited, it was sickening. I _hated_ it. He’d already picked out _names_ for God’s sake!”

“So what… happened?” John asked shyly, knowing there was no child to speak of, nor a beautiful red-head on Mycroft’s arm.

Sherlock thinned his lips and rested his cheek on John’s shoulder as his tone soured, “She was the ambassador’s daughter. Some _idiot_ was trying to make a political statement and shoot _her,_ but the daughter was the one who was hit instead.”

“Christ,” John breathed, wrapping an arm around himself at the thought.

“He hadn’t originally been interested in politics,” Sherlock confessed, watching John’s expressions curiously. “He wanted to be a barrister, but when she was killed, he made it his personal crusade to get to a place where he could invoke military protection over anyone he cared to.” He crinkled his nose, “Control issues only play a _miniscule_ part.”

 “Sherlock, that’s… that’s _awful_ ,” John mumbled, his expression heartbroken. “Do your parents know?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, shaking his head. “Fleur was murdered the night before he was going to tell them, so I believe I am the only one who was informed of their situation for she wasn’t far enough along for anyone to have seen anything either.” He thinned his lips and raised his eyebrows, “Good thing, too. Mummy would have been _distraught_.”

“I can imagine so,” John agreed, absently placing his thumb between his teeth. The Holmes’ brothers were _both_ so tender and broken, it was tragic. John vowed to himself to do anything in his power to keep the politician and the D.I. together from that moment on, if only by sheer willpower.

He softly smiled and tried to lighten the mood, “That’s not in your book.”

“What?”

“Your favorite name,” John reiterated with a smile. “Go on, tell me. If you had to choose a name for a child, what would it be?”

Sherlock allowed himself a thin smile and rested a hand at the small of John’s back, “Which gender?”

“Either.”

“Ah, helpful,” Sherlock huffed with a bemused expression. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling before humming with a conclusion, “I suppose for a girl, either Evelyn or Abigail- but not Abby; that is absolutely _dreadful._ And I would probably set her middle name as Fleur,” he shrugged, “if only for sentimentality’s sake.”

“And for a boy?” John grinned; his navy eyes alight with enthusiasm. He _loved_ when Sherlock would open up to him and just talk about _nothing_. It was _illogical_ and a _complete_ waste of time and he absolutely _adored_ it.

“Well,” Sherlock droned as he thought about it and pulled out another name. “I suppose I’ve always preferred names like Aiden or Matthias. Strong names that aren’t brutish.”

John smiled and tilted his head, “I like those. Well, I’ve always liked Olivia. My gran’s name was Olivia and it’s always just _stuck_.”

“What about a boy?” Sherlock queried watching as John shrugged.

“Never pictured myself with a son, to be honest,” John chuckled and his navy eyes sparkled. “I always felt like I’d have a little girl to take care of; dunno why. But I suppose I like Alexander, if I had to pick something at gunpoint.”

“Well hopefully it never comes to that,” the detective teased, gripping John’s hip gently. “May I kiss you?”

John scoffed and leaned forward to press his lips against the Cupid’s bow, reveling in the familiar taste of honey and warmth that greeted him. As he pulled away he smiled, blinking as the cerulean eyes opened before him again, “You’re beautiful.”

“You say that as if you mean it,” Sherlock teased with a crinkled nose.

“Eh, either that or perhaps I’m a better liar than you thought,” John supplied with a cocked brow and a barely suppressed smile.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock agreed, lifting his hand to card through John’s short hair. “Does that bother you?”

John furrowed his brow and frowned, “You touching my hair? No, I’m rather fond of it actually.”

“What? No,” Sherlock clarified, shaking his head. “You’ve always wanted to be a father. Does it upset you that you won’t?”

John shrugged, “Who says I never will?” John immediately felt Sherlock tense beneath him and he cupped the detective’s cheeks reassuringly, “No- that’s… that’s not what I meant. I just meant that there are… _other_ options besides marrying a woman.”

The detective pinched his face in confusion and looked up, “But then she- I’m assuming- wouldn’t be _yours_. Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“Are you asking if I would love a child any less because they weren’t my flesh and blood?” John asked with pursed lips before he shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter to me. A child is a child; regardless if it has blonde hair or dark skin, I couldn’t love one any more than another.”

Sherlock hummed and rested his hand on his companion’s shoulder, “If I were one to make frivolous wishes, I would hope that the world would be filled with more people like you.”

John flushed and rubbed the back of his neck absently, “I can’t imagine the world being able to handle any more of me, either, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hummed as he sat back and let his gaze fall to the dying fire, trying to decide whether or not he would offer it more fuel or call it a night.

“Come to bed,” John suggested, seemingly able to read his mind once more.

As the last lingering flames flickered in the hearth, Sherlock allowed John to pull him to his feet and towards what had (over the course of the last few months) become _their_ bedroom.

The soldier smiled as he sat and on the mattress and placed his hand over the duvet fondly, “I remember when I first held you while you slept.”

“Do you now?” Sherlock said sardonically, slipping out of his house-clothes and down to his pants before standing before John’s eyes and allowing tanned hands to rest at his hips.

“I do,” he said softly, rubbing his thumbs gently against his companion’s hipbones while keeping a wary eye out for any sudden discomfort. “You hadn’t slept in _days,_ you idiot. Nearly scared me half to death.”

“Hmmm,” the detective hummed as he sat beside his lover and smiled. “It was for good reason.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” John agreed, slipping off his jumper and tossing it onto the floor to pick up later before he stood to shimmy out of his jeans. “Doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

Sherlock’s cat eyes danced over John’s bare skin as he slipped from his clothes and lifted the duvet on the opposite side of the bed, “Perhaps not, but it was efficient for the moment being.”

“Come here,” John said softly, tugging at Sherlock’s shoulder before the taller man turned and leaned down to meet his lover.

“Yes?”

The doctor smiled as he cupped Sherlock’s neck and ran his fingers through the soft curls, “Kiss me.”

There was no argument to brook, and before another second had ticked by, Sherlock’s lips pressed against his own, filling him with warm sensations throughout his smaller frame.

Sherlock suddenly pulled back and pursed his lips as if about to say something dreadful. John immediately sat up and furrowed his brow, “What? What is it?”

The detective’s face flushed and he shifted farther onto his side of the bed, “I don’t… I would rather not…”

John pieced the information together slowly, but eventually made the connection, “Oh! Sherlock, that’s- that’s fine. We don’t have to- Christ! Come here, you idiot.”

He extended his hand to the younger man and was allowed to wrap his arm around his thinner shoulders as he lay beside him on the mattress. John smiled and pressed a kiss to the worried brow, “You’re right. Sometimes I prefer this, too. It’s not often I just get to _hold_ you.”

A breath of relief was exhaled into the room as Sherlock shifted against John’s shoulder and rested his hand on John’s thrumming chest, counting every heartbeat that pulsed against his palm. He felt warm fingertips travel across his back and he shut his eyes. _There is most assuredly a term for this act of affection. Something terribly sappy and disgusting, I’m sure. What is it?_

“You are wonderful,” John whispered into the night air as he clutched his friend to his chest and rested his other hand over the long fingers splayed out over his pectoral. “For everything you did today and everything you are; you are wonderful.”

Sherlock could feel his pale skin shining pink against the tan of his companion’s and stretched to press a soft kiss to John’s cheek, earning him a happy hum. He rested his cheek against John’s warm skin and inhaled the sweet fragrances that began to lull his speeding mind to slumber; the steady sway of John’s breathing rocking his mind like a small child’s lullaby.

Things were not what they once were, that was certain; but they were most assuredly- however slowly- getting _better_.

Sherlock smiled and hugged himself tighter to John’s happy frame as he thought about it.

 

_Much_ better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the wait and the relatively short chapter! Classes just started back up and it's been CRAZY. Thank you for following this story and as we near the end (this chapter is not QUITE it) I want to just thank you again for all of your comments and attentions! It's been wonderful.  
> Also- I've been thinking about making a Podfic of this. Any opinions?


	18. Drop Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the lack of updating my wonderful, wonderful readers! Senior Year at University is kicking my butt, but I promise, i'll try and update again soon! I love all of your comments, so please- enjoy this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

For once in his life, John Watson found himself waking before his favourite detective as his lashes fluttered open and he smiled at his luck.

Careful to make no sound, he shifted onto his side to better see the man that lay beside him. _God,_ he was beautiful. Normally, Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to be a graceful sleeper and John was constantly battling for the sheets on the colder nights, but right now, his lover was still and serene as he slumbered into the morning. John smiled as he noticed the almost nonexistent sprinkling of freckles over Sherlock’s cheeks that were normally hidden by the immediate flush he received once he walked outdoors with that pale skin.

The way he curled on his side reminded John of cat curling up next to a fireplace: soft, relaxed, and yet somehow still regal in his presence. He almost had to stifle a small chuckle as the detective hummed in his sleep, nuzzling his cheek into one of the myriad of pillows he had displayed on his bed.

What John wouldn’t give for more moments like these: _human_ moments. Moments where his detective’s nervous energy was tempered to a soft buzz that radiated through his body even as he lay perfectly still. His shoulders curled around his body where the blanket had slipped off in his sleep and long fingers curled before his nose, twitching rhythmically as if he were playing some no doubt beautiful serenade in his mind.

 _I love you_ , he’d dare to whisper if he felt brave enough to disturb the serenity of the rare scene. But no; he was content enough to just watch instead.

Eyes that saw more than he could even dream of seeing twitched behind pale lids, no doubt traveling a million miles a minute over deductions that the detective couldn’t keep himself from making even in his sleep. Dark lashes fluttered where they fanned over high cheeks and John savored every quiet movement his lover made.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s nose twitched, crinkling up in a rather endearing way and John almost sighed as he thought his moment of solace had expired. However, instead of waking, the detective simply sneezed, no louder than that of a snoozing feline, and subsequently hummed to himself as he rolled onto his stomach; resting his cheek against his bare forearm.

 _Happiness_ , John thought fondly as he watched Sherlock’s loveable actions. _That’s what you give me, Sherlock. More than anything else ever has. I wonder if you know that._

John flicked his eyes to the window behind his lover as a soft pattering of a morning rain made its presence known against the pane.

 _Great_ , he smiled to himself. _I’ll NEVER get him out of bed at this rate._

Not that the detective didn’t need his bloody sleep- _when_ he could be bothered to get any at all- but John knew how irritated his partner would get if he managed to sleep an entire day away, so he decided to gently pull him from his slumbers by slipping a bed-warmed hand into those dark curls.

Much like a cat to his owner, Sherlock unconsciously nuzzled against John’s palm with a soft hum as John traced his dark brow.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” he whispered, hardly any louder than the rain pattering against the window; watching as the dark lashes fluttered a bit as his lover inhaled consciousness.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied sleepily, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes. “I suppose it is now.”

“Why’s that?” John teased, running his hand over the ebony locks gently as Sherlock grinned.

“You’re here.” He arched his back and stretched his toes down to the foot of the bed as he scooted his back closer to John’s chest; pulling John’s arm around his torso like a child wrapping themselves in a blanket. “You don’t ever say anything in my dreams even though I like your voice.”

“Ah,” John hummed, his cheeks flushing with the honest admission. “Is that why you tell me to shut up so often?”

“Only when you’re being an idiot,” Sherlock answered, clutching John’s hand in his own and closing his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s already morning, Sherlock,” the doctor grinned, pressing his lips against the unruly hair before him.

“And it’s _raining_ ,” the detective sighed as if it were _obvious_. “That means I get to enjoy it.”

“And you can’t enjoy it when you’re awake?”

“Not as much as I’d enjoy it without your constant questioning.”

“Oh and here I thought you liked my voice,” John teased, smiling as the taller man groaned and rolled over, finding himself nose to nose with the doctor.

He narrowed his eyes and scowled, “Sometimes you are horribly irritating.”

“I love you, too,” John whispered, plucking a chaste kiss from the sleep warmed-lips before him; suddenly startling the detective into cognizance.

“I… I love you, too, John,” he mumbled, his high cheeks flushing and his lips curling into a smile. Suddenly he quirked a brow and grinned impishly, “Quite terribly, I’ll admit. It’s dreadfully inconvenient.”

“Oh I see how much it’s _inconvenienced_ you, you sod,” he teased, pushing Sherlock’s shoulder back into the bed and pulling himself over him. He began with a kiss to the forehead and punctuated every word with another kiss down to his lover’s heart, “If. Inconvenient. Come. Anyway.”

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock replied breathlessly as he cupped John’s cheek and kissed him fully; soon pulling back with a crinkled nose, “Hmm. Kissing you first thing in the morning certainly is.”

“Oh sod off!” John huffed, rolling his eyes as he pulled himself into a sitting position and discreetly sniffed his breath against his palm; crinkling his nose as well with his findings.

 “Good,” Sherlock sighed, flopping back onto the bed. “You go clean your teeth and leave me be.”

John couldn’t help but growl as he did exactly that, returning less than five minutes later to find his detective’s face planted in a pillow.

“Oh get _up_ ,” he groaned, settling back on one side of the bed and tugging playfully at his lover’s bare shoulders.

Sherlock grumbled some intelligible complaint and soon found himself seizing as John’s deft fingers began to poke and prod at his side, “ _John! Ha! Stop it!”_

“Not till you get up!” He replied with a smile as Sherlock’s scowl only barely covered the grin that was begging to be set free.

Dark hair flipped as Sherlock rolled over and pressed his hands against John’s side, frowning at the lack of sympathetic reaction, “Oh for God’s sakes!”

“I know,” John teased, smiling at Sherlock’s frustration. “Harry hated it when we were kids.”

“I- John, stop it! I understand the sentiment!” Sherlock barked through a childish giggle at John’s infuriating ministrations. “You’re an _adult_! Act like it!”

“Says the man who won’t get out of bed!” John retorted with a grin as he released his lover and planted his lips against the cupid bow pulled tight in a smile. As soon as the lips kissed him back, John pulled away with a cocked brow, “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good,” John hummed, silencing the detective’s soft laughter with a soft pressing of his lips; not daring to tread too deeply for fear of _never_ leaving their bed.

“How could one person be so wholly maddening when they first wake?” Sherlock queried between John’s gentle pecks; blinking languidly with every one.

“I’ve learned from the best,” John teased, letting one kiss linger longer than the rest until he could feel Sherlock wrapping his arm around his torso to pull him closer.

John pulled his face away and smiled, watching as Sherlock mirrored the expression with more candor than he’d ever seen on that expressive face. Cerulean eyes crinkled with honest thrill and his high cheeks were pink with joy. John would have sworn that there was no more beautiful sight in the world, had he not already been privy to Sherlock’s expression of pure adoration when he first laid hands on his bare skin.

Without warning though, Sherlock’s brows dipped down and a large palm pressed against his chest as if he were testing his own heartbeat with his fingertips.

John pulled back immediately and pinched his face with worry, “Sherlock, are you all right? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and pressed it out, his palm sinking as his chest compressed, “I… yes, John, I’m fine. That was just an odd feeling, that’s all.”

He almost jerked his jaw out of the way as John pressed his fingertips against his throat and frowned, “What? What happened?”

Suddenly his cheeks flushed bright red and he pinched his lips tight, “Nothing.”

“ _Sherlock,”_ John demanded, narrowing his eyes.

After a moment of silent internal debate, Sherlock conceded, looking towards the window and rushing the words together as if they tasted foul on his tongue, “Your expression… uh- it made me… palpitate.”

It took a moment, but soon John’s worry dissipated into adoration, “You sentimental sod.”

“As I said,” Sherlock whined, dramatically rolling his eyes to the ceiling, “ _dreadfully_ inconvenient.”

“I see,” John hummed before kissing his love fully and finally sitting back on his heels once he was through. “Did you ever find out about that group of men?”

“What group of men?” Sherlock groaned as he sat up straight, running a hand through his hair as he arched his back.

“You know- the Russian ones. The ones who almost _blew us up_?”

“You’d be surprised how _little_ that actually narrows it down, John,” Sherlock teased, leaning forward to peck John’s lips before humming as he stretched. “Boring really. No ties to anyone interesting and nothing that a little surveillance couldn’t cover. Apparently that Victor fellow was smuggling out from underneath their noses. Petty arguments. I sent what I had to Mycroft- I assume it’s been resolved as of now.”

“It’s almost worrying how you think a drug ring is _boring_ , Sherlock,” John hummed with a smile, resting his hand on Sherlock’s waist. “You’re absolutely barking mad.”

“Who’s worse?” Sherlock queried with a cocked brow. “The mad man or the man in love with a mad man?”

A tanned hand slid up Sherlock’s side until John had a grip on his shoulder and could pull him down for a kiss half-interrupted by a smile, “Oh, most certainly the latter.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock grinned against John’s skin before he pulled away, narrowing his eyes. “You’re being considerably affectionate today. Why?”

“No reason,” John smiled, resting his forehead against the pale- slightly freckled shoulder. “I’m just… _happy_.”

“Ah,” he hummed back brushing his cheek against the fair stubble, “You should try being so more often.”

“With you, I might,” came the soft reply. Sherlock hummed as he felt warmth against his ivory neck that began to flush to a healthy rose with John’s ministrations.

Just then, a soft chime echoed from Sherlock’s bedside table and he groaned, dramatically leaning past John with a long sigh a he picked it up.

 

From. D.I. Lestrade

_Got something. Closed room case. Coming? –GL_

_08:39_

John hummed as he tilted his head to read the message, “Seems it’s a good thing I got you up after all.”

“Oh hush,” Sherlock mumbled, furrowing his brow as he typed back. “It’s probably boring anyways. I’d wager it’s three times out of ten something that Lestrade _thinks_ is interesting actually _is_.”

“Only you would think a murder of _any_ caliber is _boring_ ,” John sighed, watching those lovely fingers fly across the glass screen.

Sherlock hummed back noncommittally and slipped from the bed, adjusting his sleep trousers on his narrow hips, “Well come along, John.”

He smiled as he watched Sherlock strip right in front of him and walk stark naked towards his closet, shifting on his hips as his long fingers traced across the myriad of suits from which he pulled a pitch black one made of some fabric John assumed cost more than his entire wardrobe.

“Do you fancy what you see?” Sherlock teased with a cocked brow, finally pulling John from his trance.

 _How the hell is this man so bloody confident? Well, I suppose if I had a body like that, I would be, too._ Navy eyes blinked profusely before he rubbed them with the heel of his palms and he smiled, “You know I do. Now get dressed.”

Silvery eyes creased with amusement as he slipped his silk ( _of course- what else would they be?)_ pants on before pulling into his ebony trousers and settling back down next to where John remained sitting. He ran a hand over the sandy hair and smiled, “What do I have to do to persuade you to _move_?”

The doctor smirked and wrapped an arm around his lover’s chest, pulling him down into a warm embrace and whispered against his cheek, “Hmm, I’m not sure. Have any ideas?”

Warmth lapped against his neck as his answer was mouthed against his throat and his back was gently lowered to the bed.

“Oh. I think I can come up with _something.”_

 

***

 

“Why is _he_ here?”

Sergeant Donovan, as cordial as ever, pouted as soon as Sherlock lifted the yellow tape and allowed John under it, and followed after himself; ruffling the lingering rain from his damp hair. He only barely tampered down the urge to roll his eyes at her and consciously ignored her barbs as he looked about the flat.

Bedsit was probably a better term for this flat; as it had only one room slightly off to the side of the kitchen and miniature sitting area. Beige paint coated the walls in a boring sense of despondency and the thought occurred to him in that moment that this would have been the ideal living space for someone recently returned from Afghanistan.

Had his poor John been subjected to such melancholy as soon as he’d returned from his valiant service? He flicked his eyes towards the doctor in question and immediately found his answer. John’s chin was lifted in a defiant manner and his hands clasped behind his back ( _uncomfortable)_ , while he eyed every surface in the bedsit with a soft tainting of disdain.

Sherlock immediately turned his eye back to the beige walls as John straightened, knowing he’d been caught, and sighed. No wonder his brilliant doctor had been so broken as soon as he’d returned to their lovely city. No one to depend on, no one to call his own, and a place as dreary as _this_? It’s no shock he’d become so acclimatized to handling his gun in a fashion the detective didn’t necessarily want to spend much time thinking about, even if he couldn’t say that he wouldn’t have felt similarly in the same situation.

“Lestrade!” Donovan barked, narrowing her eyes. “We don’t _need_ his help!”

“Donovan, just let him _look_ ,” the D.I. sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Sherlock smirked as he sauntered past the Sergeant and eyed her down. Donovan, even though she’d found out the truth of Sherlock’s assault in tandem with the rest of the force, had never given him any pity and remained as acerbic as ever; something Sherlock rather found he appreciated and resolved to not be _too_ terribly obnoxious (as long as Donovan didn’t give him ample fuel with which to work with. It was really all up to her).

He kneeled beside the bed and squinted as he tried to determine any cause of death or injury besides the obvious hole in his left temple.

_Blonde hair, late twenties, works in IT, recent graduate, nervous nail-biting habit, bruise against his jaw as if someone had grabbed him to make a point. I wonder if-_

“It’s a _suicide_ ,” a familiar voice groaned, causing Sherlock to lift his head in order to see Anderson crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

“Wrong,” he stated blandly, rising to his feet and gesturing towards the corpse of Michael Bradley. “Do you see any burns on his hands? Is there any gun powder residue? Surely, you’d have already checked if you were so certain.”

The older man scowled and kicked himself off of the wall he had leaned against to grab a kit to which Sherlock groaned, “You’re not going to _find_ anything, Anderson. Tell me, does one still have to pass an examination to work for the Yard or are they finally recruiting off of the streets?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned, effectively silencing the consultant who began to peer around the room while mumbling to himself.

“Perfect place, perfect idea, but something… something’s not right.”

“So?” Lestrade prodded, leaning against a wall next to John. “What have we got here? Door and windows were all locked from the inside- even the chain. Gun’s right there, but no prints. I get that he didn’t have a GSR, but what am I looking at? A ghost?”

Sherlock almost lolled his head to the side at Lestrade’s incompetence but managed to keep his petulance at a dull roar, “John, could you explain to Lestrade the use of desvenlafaxine?”

John’s fair brows reached his hairline in shock at the almost foreign word and he sputtered, “Ah, um- uh, well it’s an SNRI, if I’m not mistaken.” He turned to Lestrade and began to explain in laymen terms, “Uh, it’s anti-depression medication for the most part, but sometimes it’s used for other things like Fibromyalgia, diabetic nerve pain- stuff like that.” Then he watched as his partner began to rifle among some of Bradley’s personal effects, “Why do you ask?”

It was a good thing he’d been looking, because if he hadn’t, the bottle Sherlock suddenly flung at him would have pegged him directly in the forehead. John sniffed indignantly and studied the off-brand medication bottle and hummed, “Ah. Well, with this dosage, he was having some _major_ issues.”

“Like I _said_ ,” Anderson piped up again, but was suddenly cut off by the detective.

“Yes, you have very effectively exhibited your ineptitude, Anderson,” he hummed, kneeling down in front of the dust bin. “I suggest you find elsewhere to continue your petty soliloquy so that I may explain to those less… _ignorant_ who the culprit _actually_ is.”

“Well go on,” Lestrade stated sternly, watching with a wary eye as Anderson stalked back off into the hall in a huff.

“This man,” Sherlock answered, picking up a slightly crumpled picture from the bin and flattening it against the wall before handing it to Lestrade. He pointed to a rather attractive looking, red-headed young man who, in the picture, wrapped his arms around their corpse and pressed his lips into the blonde hair. “He’s your murderer.”

“Do I get an explanation?” Lestrade huffed, handing the photograph to one of his underlings and crossing his arms again.

Sherlock scowled, “Honestly, Lestrade, must I do _everything?_ At this point, you’ll be asking me to file _paperwork.”_

“It sure would make life easier,” he chuckled, narrowing his soft brown eyes at the younger brother of his lover. “You want to brag, I don’t know why you’re being so ornery.”

At that, John snorted and the detective glowered, “I do not _brag_.”

John hummed a question and raised his thumb and forefinger into a pinching fashion, “Ehh, a _little_ bit.”

Silver eyes rolled as he pointed towards the body surrounded by dried blood and Lestrade’s team’s footprints, “Michael here was in a relationship with this man,” he pointed back at the photo that had found its way to the woman at his side, “for approximately three years- at least basing that on the length of time between photographs in his desk.” He pointed to the dust bin, “Why is that photograph in the trash? Because they’ve recently gone separate ways, most likely due to the victim’s depression. As John stated, it’s taken a large toll on his life and most certainly on any relationships. The ex-lover came to talk and it escalated. This bruise- it’s one he got when this man grabbed his jaw, to make him look. The victim _knew_ he was going to die and probably tried to fight, but a gun is a rather efficient weapon. ”

“I’m waiting to hear the part that explains why there’s a gun and no way for him to get out,” Lestrade sighed, tilting his head to the side.

“I’m getting there!” Sherlock snapped, gesturing to the gun on the floor. “Serial number’s been filed off, but it’s not been taken care of. Certainly a novice, someone who probably picked it up as an afterthought while in a shady part of town. It’s really not that difficult to find weapons if one simply puts forth the effort. The victim’s left handed- so technically, he could have raised the gun to his own head, but as we’ve mentioned, no burns, no residue- only an _idiot_ ,” he spat pointedly towards the doorway, “would think suicide.”

He then began to trace his left hand over the wall, while his right hand rested in his pocket- a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to do, John thought. “There must be… Somewhere in this room…”

“What are you look-” John attempted, but was silenced by a stern glare as the detective continued to touch the beige paint.

“This lover,” Sherlock mumbled, almost more to himself than anyone else, “he was let in. He must have been the one who had been left, thus the picture in the trash and the… but… He’d been let in and made certain that it would seem there’d been no one but the victim in the room… There must be something…”

He began to trace his left hand over the window sill and suddenly grinned, flicking his eyes towards John, “John, about how far could someone fall and still survive?”

The off-color question caught John by surprise and he pursed his lips, “I mean, it really all depends. If someone manages to fall on their feet, and _not_ crush their spine, I’d say probably a few stories, at least.”

Sherlock lifted his ungloved hand from his pocket and ran it along the bottom of the window, “How about two?”

“Well sure,” John shrugged. “As long as they landed-”

His voice was suddenly interrupted by a loud _crack_ as the bottom part of the window snapped up as Sherlock pressed his pinky finger into a small divot in the frame.

“Bloody hell!” John barked, catching himself on the wall as Sherlock peered out of the window and into the street below.

“Ah-ha!” He hollered, terribly amused by his own genius. He leaned back and examined the nail in the window that happened to not actually be one. “It’s a trick latch. All he had to do was hop out onto this ledge, and pull it back down,” Sherlock subsequently began to step out and onto the small brick inlay hardly wide enough for his shoe to demonstrate just before John grabbed his coat collar and tugged him back inside.

“We are _not_ going to test whether or not you _bounce_ ,” he snapped, ignoring the awkward way Sherlock landed back into the bedsit on his knees as his shoe caught the frame.

“Oh for God’s sakes, John! I’m not going to _fall_!”

“Well you most certainly won’t now that you’re inside,” John stated blankly, returning to his post beside Lestrade and crossing his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and clamored back to his feet; John could certainly be exceedingly stubborn when he wanted to be, “ _Anyways_ , you have your man and your method. Surely even your band of trained monkeys can get somewhere with that.”

He sauntered past the D.I. and tugged gently on John’s sleeve as he walked by, “Come along, John.”

The doctor couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s brattiness and- _of course-_ followed after, waving at Lestrade, “See ya round, Greg.”

The D.I. tipped his silver head, “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything else. Tell him I have some cold cases if he’d like to take a crack at them.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s just _dying_ to do so,” John teased, just before slipping back under the yellow tape and following his lover into the hall and down the stairs.

“Well that was easy,” John hummed, threading his arm through Sherlock’s who seemed startled by the contact. John immediately froze and widened his eyes, “Too much?”

The detective shook himself and gave a negative hum, “Not too much. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

Tension seeped from John’s body as he relaxed back into Sherlock’s arm and noticed the white band of skin indicative of his lack of leather, “Did you lose your glove?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock followed John’s gaze and flicked up his brow. “Oh!” As he held took the last step of the stairs and held open the door for his friend, Sherlock pulled out his right hand and exposed the small stone John had given him; vibrant colours contrasting against the pallor of his palm.

“Oddly enough,” he cooed, delighting himself in the gentle glow radiating from John’s surprise, “it actually _does_ help me think.” He dropped the stone back into his greatcoat pocket and smiled as he lifted his thumb for John’s examination. Sure enough, when the doctor peered at the pale skin, most of the thumbprint had been worn away by what had to have been a very nervous Sherlock. “I like it.”

“I’m glad you do,” John grinned, gently grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and pressing his thumb to his lips.

Sherlock cleared his throat as his cheeks flushed, and he urged John along towards a street crossing; noting the way the sky had let up and a hazy grey had taken hold of the atmosphere, “I think I’d like to stop by Angelo’s today.”

“Oh?” John replied, letting Sherlock walk free of contact across the street.

“Yes,” Suddenly his cheeks flushed with something unrelated to the late-winter chill and he lowered his eyes. “We haven’t been there since…”

“Since I became your date?” John finished with a smile, chuckling as Sherlock’s mouth had a battle between returning the smile and its default frown setting.

“Well, yes, I suppose that would be a decent way to look at it,” he mumbled and John could hear the smile creeping through the tone.

“I’m certain Angelo will have an absolute _ball_ with us next time,” John grinned, watching Sherlock’s eyes light up with amusement. “God knows he’s our number one fan.”

“He’ll definitely-” Sherlock’s voice broke as he was knocked into John by a passerby on the street.

He spun around to snap something acidic, but stopped short when he took in the sight of the man; a shocked gasp escaping his rapidly paling lips.

His feet stilled in their movements and his entire body felt like a spring coiled too tightly as his chest tightened at the dark hair, dark eyes, round face, _Oh God._

Anxiety washed over him and every thought that sparked in his mind was branded with “Fight” or “Flight”. _Focus- you’re all right. You’re all right. Oh God, no you’re not. No, you’re really, REALLY not. Why can’t you BREATHE? Run. Breathe. Get away. Why can’t you MOVE?_

 _John_ frowned as soon as Sherlock had collided with him, but when he turned about, his stomach dropped.

His companion had turned white as a sheet, his skin sallow and thinly pulled across his bones, and his eyes widened in alarm far more than John thought he’d ever seen before. Sherlock’s expression was a sheer horror, but when he looked to where it was directed, he only found a rather startled stranger with short, dark hair and a perplexed appearance.

“All right, mate?” The tall stranger asked him carefully, flicking his dark eyes towards John in concern as the detective beside him remained silent and stepped back slightly.

Dark lashes blinked rapidly against pale skin as Sherlock’s breathing suddenly accelerated into short, huffs and John rested his hand gently at his elbow.

“Sherlock?”

John wasn’t sure what to expect as he tried to decipher the issue at hand, watching silver eyes flicker and his prominent jaw beginning to tremble, but he most certainly wasn’t expecting-

“Whoa! Sherlock!”

Dark curls bounced as the detective’s head lolled forward and his knees crumpled beneath him; causing him to semi-collapse into John’s arms and nearly knock him down with his armful of Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock!” John barked, slipping down to his knees as his companion’s entire body fell limp in his embrace and his head slumped against John’s chest. John patted his hand against the pale cheek and jammed his fingers against the thready pulse that seemed to be attempting a new World Record, “Sherlock! Wake up! What’s going on?”

John noticed the numerous glances that immediately shot his way and dragged his friend’s form away from the street and into a vacant alley between two buildings, lowering him down onto the still damp concrete and being careful to avoid any puddles.

“Oh my God, Sherlock! Sherlock, come on!” he patted his friend’s cheek until the skin flushed with the repeated impact. John shook his head in concern and rested his fingers against Sherlock’s pulse again, cursing under his breath as it raced beneath his fingertips.

“What the _fuck_?” He questioned himself as he searched Sherlock’s skin for any signs of an injection site that he had missed or perhaps a wound Sherlock had been keeping hidden, but found none. Nothing besides a hyperventilating detective that remained unconscious on the ground.

Suddenly, he flicked his eyes towards the street again and caught a glimpse of the man who Sherlock had run into and it _finally_ clicked.

“Oh, Christ,” he breathed, lifting up the quivering eyelid and taking in the sight. “Shit, don’t go into shock. Please don’t- come on, Sherlock. Wake up for me. You’re okay, just come back to me.”

He carded a hand through the damp curls and cupped the detective’s cool cheek, waiting and watching while the dark head began to gently nod as consciousness slowly lapped back onto the detective.

“Come on, Sherlock, you’re okay,” John hummed, rubbing his thumb over the pale cheekbone as Sherlock’s lashes began to flutter and his chin lifted slightly. “There you go, come back. You’re all right.”

A few confused blinks later, Sherlock’s eyes widened and he jerked upright, his ungloved hand shooting up to John’s shoulder, gripping tight as he began to shake his head, “John! John, he’s- I- J-John- I-”

“Shhh,” John whispered, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and slightly forcing his face forward. “It wasn’t him. Look at me. Just calm down; look at me. It _wasn’t_ him, okay? Everything’s all right.”

“But, I- he-” Sherlock stammered, slumping slightly forward as if he felt faint again and his entire frame trembling to the point John concerned about an aneurism. “John, I saw-”

“Just an ordinary man,” John stated sternly, yet softly as Sherlock’s gasps brushed against his skin. He lightly pushed back the dark fringe and lifted his brow in sympathy, “It was just a man, Sherlock. Not him. Just breathe; you’re all right.”

“I- I can’t,” he choked, his gloved hand clutching desperately at his own chest.

“Yes you can,” John asserted, pulling the hand from his shoulder and placing it over his own heart. “Feel it. I’m right here. No one is going to hurt you, okay? I’m right here, just _breathe_. In and out. Just slow down.”

The detective’s shallow breaths puffed white smoke into the air of the alleyway and John was thankful for the lack of traffic that passed them; he wasn’t sure he could deal with a panicking detective _and_ damage control.

“One, hydrogen,” John whispered, resting his forehead against the clammy one before him, “Two, helium.”

“Three, lithi-lithium,” Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes and trying to force feeling back into his fingertips on John’s chest. “Four, b-b-beryllium.”

“Five, boron,” John hummed, lifting his free hand to Sherlock’s wrist and relaxing at the steadying decline in rate as they continued their recitation.

Eventually the table was completed and Sherlock panted against John’s cheek, his eyes still pinched tight, but no longer a danger to himself.

“You’re all right, Sherlock,” John fussed, nuzzling his nose gently against his lover’s. “It’s okay.”

“I saw…” Sherlock mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. “I saw him. I thought… that doesn’t make sense…” He drifted off and John notice a small tremor in his right hand as it slipped from his shoulder and landed in his lap: a rapid twitching of his thumb against his forefinger that made John’s heart ache.

“I know,” John replied softly, petting Sherlock’s hair as his trembling began to simmer down. “There was a man on the street. He looked a lot like him, but it _wasn’t_ him. You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“My chest…” Sherlock drifted off, his eyes not actually focusing on John as the doctor pulled away. “I… I’ve never done that.”

“I know,” John reiterated again, “it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you; you were just frightened- that’s all. No harm, no foul.”

“I saw his face and I just…” He swallowed thickly and shook his head, “I just gave up. My body- I just-”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John pressed, lifting his lover’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet, “listen to me, _please._ It’s _okay._ You haven’t done anything _wrong_. Do you understand?”

At Sherlock’s silence, John traced a thumb over the prominent cheekbone, “Sherlock, tell me you understand. You haven’t done anything wrong; you’re all right.”

Slowly, he began to nod in acquiescence and eventually sucked in a heavy breath, “Why did I do that? I’ve never done that.”

John opened his mouth to answer just before his mobile began to ring in his pocket. He fished it out and slid over the familiar name, “Hello?”

“ _What just happened?”_ The older Holmes demanded. “ _Where is my brother?”_

 _How the hell-? Is there HONESTLY someone watching Sherlock 24/7?_ “He’s fine,” John soothed, running a hand over the dark curls and creasing his eyes. “He just had a scare, that’s all. He’s fine.”

“ _What do you mean ‘a scare’?”_

 _“_ I mean he had a _scare_ ,” John clarified irately. “He thought he saw someone, but he didn’t. It’s honestly all right.”

“Tell my brother to fuck off,” Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the brick wall behind him.

There was a moment of silence over the line as if Mycroft was debating on letting the issue lie before his voice came again, softer, “ _Still as caustic as ever. Does he need an ambulance?”_

“No,” John shook his head, resting his free hand on the dark curls. “I just need to take him home; he’ll be fine.”

“ _I’ll be in touch, John_ ,” Mycroft replied, seemingly mollified by his brother’s caretaker, and clicked off the line. John palmed it back into his pocket and brushed his hand over the rapidly flushing cheek.

“Can you stand?”

“I’m not _helpless_ , John!” Sherlock snapped, glaring at the doctor until he sighed and lowered his head. “I’m… s-”

“I know,” he interrupted, slowly rising to his feet and extending his hand down.

Sherlock’s bare palm grabbed at his as he pulled himself up and dusted off his clothes; more in a fashion indicating embarrassment than for a need to clean himself off from the wet ground.

“I’ve never done that,” he mumbled again, breathlessly, as if he still couldn’t believe what had just occurred. “I’ve never-”

“It’s completely normal,” John urged, cupping his elbow and leading him out. “Defense mechanism.”

“How useless,” Sherlock scowled, crinkling his nose. “How could I defend myself if I’m not even conscious?”

“Not…” John mumbled, lowering his eyes. “Not _that_ kind of defense mechanism.”

Sherlock’s stomach ran cold as he understood John’s implication. _Oh. An emotional defense. Wonderful- you can’t even manage to get around London without fainting like a bad actress. You really have-_

“It doesn’t mean anything, Sherlock,” John pressed, furrowing his brow. “It has nothing to do with your ability to handle stress. You’re still _you._ You weren’t expecting it- it’s _okay_.”

“John- I can’t even walk around my own city!” He snapped, wrapping his arms around himself in a defensive manner.

“It happened _once_ ,” John retorted with a cocked brow, crossing his arms. “ _One_ time is not going to kill you- get _over it_!”

Sherlock glared at the sturdy doctor’s face, but only found an expression even more stubborn than his own. He rolled his eyes and sniffed indignantly, his coat sweeping behind him as he stalked off and back into the lively street.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John groaned, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a tight hug for the world to see.

“John?” He looked down and only found a head of sandy hair pressing against his chest. “John?”

The doctor remained silent and finally Sherlock gave in, letting his shoulders sink as tension dissipated from them, and lightly wrapping his arms around the doctor, “Fine.”

John smiled and hugged him tightly before pulling away and patting his upper arm, “You’re all right, love. Just another bump in the road- nothing to worry about.” Then he playfully cocked a brow, “Unless you start fainting all over London and I have to save you like a damsel in distress. I think I’d get rather tired of coming to your rescue.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed at the gentle jest and he smiled, “No you wouldn’t. I bet you’d get off on it.”

“Oh, I _might_ ,” John teased before raising a hand to his forehead dramatically and letting his knees crumple beneath him. “Oh, _John_! _Save me!”_

Sherlock caught him as he fell against his chest and scowled as he looked down with a furrowed brow, “Sometimes, John Watson, you are a complete _arse.”_

Before John could retort, Sherlock dropped him none-too-gently onto the concrete and began to stalk away. John coughed at the abrupt blow and staggered to his feet, “Oh come _on_ , Sherlock! I’m just _kidding_!”

“Ah yes, you should honestly try your hand at stand up; you’re terribly _talented_ ,” Sherlock growled, jerking his hands into his pockets and stalking down the street.

John smiled as he caught only the slightest twitch of his companion’s lips towards a smirk and followed after.

“You know, you make a _lovely_ damsel-”

“Oh, _do_ shut up, John.”

 

***

 

The doorbell startled John from his book and he jerked his head up towards the detective studiously ignoring him in the kitchen.

“I suppose _I’ll_ get that,” he sighed, dog-earing his book if only for the fact he knew his lover _detested_ it and stood to his feet. He ran his hand through his hair and tossed the book- something about some lady travelling around the world he thought; he’d only just started of course- onto his chair before meandering down towards the street door.

“Greg!” He exclaimed as he opened the door and found the familiar D.I.’s face smiling back at him. He held out his hand and shook it, “What are you doing here?”

Lestrade nodded as John let him inside the door and he began to climb the steps, “Is Sherlock here?”

“Uh, yeah, why?” John queried, following after him back up to the flat.

Just as the two men stepped onto the landing, Sherlock lifted his eyes and groaned, dropping his face dramatically onto the table, “Go _away_ , Graham.”

“ _Greg_ ,” Lestrade corrected with an amused expression. He walked over towards the kitchen table and grinned, “I heard you’ve had quite an eventful day.”

Scandalized, Sherlock jerked up his head and grimaced, “Oh for God’s sake, I am _not_ the topic of your pillow talk.”

Barely perturbed, Lestrade smirked and flicked an eye towards John, “I just came by to make sure My’s _baby brother_ didn’t keel over and die.”

John stifled as snort at his friend’s petulance and Sherlock growled, “Well you can assure _Mycroft_ that I am in decent shape and ask him to refrain from sticking his abnormally large nose where it doesn’t _belong!”_ He sniffed and focused against on the eyeball he was delicately slicing in two once more, “Doesn’t he have something better to do with his time? Perhaps a weight loss meeting he so _desperately_ needs to attend?”

Lestrade laughed and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, almost causing him to stab himself with a blade coated in vitreous humour, “Well, you seem well enough to me. What… what are you doing?”

“Better not ask,” John suggested with a smirk. “You might not want to know.”

“I’m testing the amount of pressure I can exert on an eyeball before it explodes,” Sherlock hissed, raising his scalpel at the D.I. “Perhaps you’d like to volunteer?”

Backing away, while raising his hands, Lestrade chuckled, “Erm, I think I’m all right; thanks for the offer, though.”

“The door is _that_ way,” he barked, looking back down at his experiment. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he wasn’t finding any of his friends’ teasing even remotely unappreciated. He would rather them tease the hell out of him for fainting in the middle of the street than dance around him cautiously with pity seeping from their skin. It was… annoyingly _refreshing_.

“I suppose I’ll see myself out then,” he hummed with a smile, tilting his head towards the doctor. “John.”

“Bye, Greg,” he grinned with a short wave as the older man found his own way out. He stepped towards the detective and ruffled his hair lovingly, “That was entertaining.”

“Your vocabulary needs to be updated if you honestly think that was _entertaining_ ,” he growled, without any animosity.

“Perhaps it does,” he hummed, pressing a chaste kiss against the dark curls.

Sherlock couldn’t completely contain the smile that painted his lips at the contact, “Thank you.”

John didn’t ask for what, nor did he acknowledge the gratitude with anything but a kind smile and set about the ritual of making tea.

“I don’t remember reading that, either,” John suddenly stated, causing Sherlock to spin around in his chair.

“Hmm?”

“Your favourite tea,” he smiled, resting the tea bags in their cups. “You’d think that’d be one of the first things you’d mention.”

“Oh,” Sherlock furrowed his brow and frowned, “I thought it was obvious.” John cocked a brow in question and finally received an answer, “ _Yours.”_

Tanned cheeks flushed and he sniffed shyly, “You know what I mean.”

“I do, and that’s still my answer,” Sherlock replied with a grin. “Whatever you use, yours is always better than anyone else’s.”

John smiled and handed him over a cup, “Well, I am certainly glad you think so. Makes life easier for me.”

Sherlock smiled as he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the sickly sweet liquid down. _Three spoonfuls’ of honey- John thinks your blood glucose is low. When’s the last time you ate?_

“Did you still want to stop by Angelo’s today?” John questioned before he sipped his tea and closed his eyes in appreciation for its milky smoothness. “We kind of got sidetracked earlier.”

Sherlock flushed and resolved to continue sipping his tea silently.

“We could go out on a _date_ ,” John suggested with a grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually taken you on a proper one.”

Sherlock’s pulse leapt under his skin and he shook his head, “Oh I hardly think-”

“Oh come on! It’ll be _fun_ ,” John urged, creasing his navy eyes. “It’ll get your mind off of today and I can treat you to a night on the town like a proper lover.”

“John, I know every crevice of this city- there is nothing-”

“Oh ye of little faith,” John winked, draining his last swallow of tea and leaning down for a chaste kiss. “I think you’ll enjoy it.” At Sherlock skeptical expression, John sighed and shifted on his hip, “How about this? We make a bet. If I win, I get to take you out on a date and if you win-”

“I get to take _you_ out on one,” Sherlock suddenly interrupted with a shy smile that John returned earnestly.

“Alright,” John grinned, “I can live with that. What’s the wager?”

Sherlock hummed as he thought about it before John interjected, “Something _fair!_ Not something like ‘first one to break into the National Bank wins’.”

 _That certainly would have been entertaining if nothing else_ , Sherlock thought as he steepled his hands beneath his nose. _What would John inevitably lose at?_

“Actually,” John hummed with an impish grin.

“I think I might have an idea…”


End file.
